For un-feathering the glacial archangels,
the barbed-lily snowfall of slender teeth
is condemned to the weeping of fountains
and the sadness of well-springs.
For diffusing its soul into metal,
for the fire to grant its sunrise to iron,
the torrential blacksmiths’ draw it
to the sorrow of harsh anvils.
To the painful sting of the thorn,
to the fatal discouragement of the rose,
and the corrosive action of dying,
I see myself given, and all this ruin
is for no other misfortune, no other reason
than loving you, and only loving you.