She-wolf and wolf in the wintery bed
when the howling of hearts shrinks to whispers:
from their fears twine names in the dark,
their wine tastes of the lamb's blood.

The nights are like those in parental times,
piled up on the house weigh the ruins of the temple;
and where through a shadow a light beam flashes
the illusion wastes into mildewy walls.

The dreamed baby hand sleeps within us;
his little pulse beats as in distress the chests
of birds that one sadly must set free.

Together, under the flag of the bed sheet,
as after a battle we lie on the bier.
Maria's hand rests on my graying hair.