‘You'll come with me’ I said, and none knew
where and how my pain throbbed,
and for me there was no carnation or barcarole,
nothing but an open love wound.

I repeated, ‘come with me,’ as though I were dying,
and nobody saw the bleeding moon in my mouth,
no one saw that blood going up into the silence.
O love, let us now forget the thorned star!

This is why, when I heard your voice repeat
‘You'll come with me,’ it was as though you unbound
pain, love, the fury of gaoled wine

coming up from its flooded cellar;
and my mouth again tasted flame,
blood and carnations, stone and burns.