To the boy Elis

Elis,when the blackbird calls from the black woods,

That is your perdition.

Yort lips drink in the coolness of the blue rock spring.

Leave be,when your brow quietly bleeds

Ancient legends

And dark deciphering of birdflight.

Yet you walk with gentle step into the night,

Which hangs full of purple grapes

And you mive your arms lovelier in blueness.

Athorn bush sounds,

Where your moonlight eyes are.

O,how long, Elis,have you been dead,

Your body is a hyacinth

Into which a monk dips his waxen fingers.

Our silence is a black cavern,

From whoch at times a gentle animal appears

And slowly shuts its heavy eyelids.

Onto your temples black dew drips,

The final gold of vanished stars.