The hill is like night against the clear sky.

Your head framed against it, barely moving,

and moving with the sky. You are like a cloud

seen between branches. In your eyes the laughter

and strangeness of a sky that is not yours.

The hill of earth and leaves halts

your bright gaze with its dark mass,

your mouth has the curve of a gentle hollow

between distant slopes. You seem to play

with the great hill and the clearness of the sky:

to please me you echo the ancient background

and make it purer.

But you live elsewhere.

Your gentle blood came from elsewhere.

The words you say have no meeting-point

with the rugged sadness of this sky.

You are only a white and sweetly gentle cloud

entangled one night among ancient branches.