At the outpouring of your voice, its gentleness
of honeyed mouth, and its pure swaying,
desire lays its roses in my earthly
hands, beside the customary fire.

Exasperated, I reach the summit
of your island breast, and surround it
with an ambitious sea, and the stamp
of exasperated petals of light.

But you defend yourself, with walls,
from the eagerness of my moods,
that drown you in oceans and lands.

For pure stone, indifferent, you keep silence:
to keep the silence of stone you pile, and pile,
more and more roses into my hands.