They look at us, white and red,
as if from old paintings: their tepid
flesh and dun hair in braids
burdening their narrow shoulders. Like glass

their bright gaze on faraway waters,
unclouded by long history.
Their round whiteT arms are paler,
their hips calmer, heavier. We see

a grace in their languidness
like that of sleep, or of quiet lies
with which we wordlessly comply:
as if this were blessedness.

Translated by Donna Stonecipher