The golden bird is singing
in a sparse forest. Rain falls
on the black foliage. Nobody
listens. That is the pain, of this world
that comes from the inside
of your thigh, Ariadne.
In your stellar robes
you envelop the sky
and crude mountains touch
the tips of your unseen breasts.
Moonlight fills
the long grass and everyone
is drunk on your marital wine.
Stars fall away from heaven.
This circle throws us forever
how far this earth must travel
for the love of your secret light.