RIMA XVIII

            Tired of dancing,
red in the face and short of breath,
            resting on my arm
she paused at one end of the hall.

          Above the delicate
fabric over her heaving breast
            a flower was swaying
steadily and sweetly back and forth.

            As though in an ivory cradle
rocked by the sea and caressed by the wind,
            perhaps it was sleeping
while soothed by the breath from her lips.

            Oh—I thought—if only
I might allow time to slip by like that!
            Oh, if flowers sleep,
            what a beautiful dream!