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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. |