You would be naked on the wet and pink heather,
like those women one reads of in school,
with goats grazing round your inviting figure.
You would sleep without dreaming of anything,
with your soft legs stretched out, warm and sweet,
shining in the rain and icy green of the moss.
Your body is like air and water-pure.
A cricket serenades you from the old wall
of an abandoned house which would have,
as its feet, pink mushrooms of the forest.
The Larks which have the color of money
would whistle and steal quickly away. And while sleeping,
you would put a hand in your hair filled
with delicious bits of straw and twigs.