Your heart, a frozen orange, a centre,
within, without light, of sweet juniper oil
and a porous appearance of gold: a surface
that promises danger to those who look.
My heart, a feverish pomegranate
of clustered blushes, and opened wax,
which might offer you its tender seeds
with an enamoured obstinacy.
Ay! What an experience of loss
to go to your heart and find a coldness
of irreducible and fearful snow!
Through the outskirts of my weeping
a thirsty handkerchief goes flying,
with the hope of one who might drink there.