The Mad Woman

Fugitive, like a white bird, in tears
she cries out to one killed by bombs:
—I am on the sunlight, on the gravel;
I will walk across the torrent’s spray.

Fugitive by the birches and weeds,
the ghost of her betrothed cries out:
—My tender feet are wounded on the rocks;
I will walk across the torrent’s spray.

Palms raised, she graces him
in the sheen, between the waves:
—After this horrible earthly suffering,
we will meet again — as kindred . . .

in the shade—the eternal jasmine’s—
with immaculate joy.