Do I see the moon reflecting
On the grey lakes in the glassy night,
Where the black swan awaits in sombre
For her Slavic prince of charm to arrive?
Or are they a pair of crystal pegs
Full of rare blobs of rich, red wine
From the hedonist evenings of Persia
For the lover’s lips with an open invite?
Lo and behold! Oh how they fooled me!
Indeed! They are but a pair of eyes,
Demure, delicate, wings unfolded,
Like a lonely crane on a home-bound flight.
Like the smell of mist, like the cries of stone,
Like the dance of leaves and the taste of snow,
She is unreal, she ain’t a woman,
She is the myth of an ancient right.