The Years from You to Me

Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes

you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn.

We drink what somebody brewed, neither I nor you nor a third:

we lap up some empty and last thing.

We watch ourselves in the deep sea's mirrors and faster pass food to the other:

the night is the night, it begins with the morning,

beside you it lays me down.