You walk on a street flooded with sun;
before you, after you, the dark.
Your neon eyes, like will-o’-the-wisps
in a murky forest, glow afar.
You hold a moon in your right hand,
in the other an unknown man’s head –
people are looking round after you
in dumb astonishment, but each
who looks will, crown to ankles,
turn to stone.
At the crossroads, finally
alone, you drop to the ground,
lay the man’s head in your lap,
and its eyes open. Painfully
it gazes: Even thus you are beautiful,
it says and suddenly begins to sing
a mournful song,
but you do not hear; you are talking
with the moon.
English Translation: John Minahane