One must needs contemplate
on a rustic afternoon
the falls of rust-colored hair
about his ruddy face
which (darkened by the English rain)
seems equal to the color of the river at night.

his cursing bold form smolders on the sheets and
swanky-legged stride captured and outlined in broad romantic lines
of his tight black pants (across the back, and coat...
although now blowing in the wind of a ship heading west
will soon caress my hand in careful firelight
while the real rain darkens his eyes
and he shudders)

The bony face of
the corpse of my lover
(his dead-leaf echo tortures me at every breath!)
is changed, much, and one can barely trace
the long ago days of his Beethoven hair
that blew wild on the sea strand
and his nightmared face in moonlight
brought awake (and escaped) by my stolen ruddy kiss

Me myself being
quite a man and with mussed hair
(riding a but forever white and windy horse)
groping for love in a misty English forest
in which my companion seems
always to be looking behind him

I am the only one!
the only capable of
wearing white and perhaps a smile
yes, a smile, a laugh
for behind my studied exterior lurks
a wild and windy soul which
regards the world with rainy eyes

(but nonetheless, the ship sailed west without
him and I;
the corpse of my lover
rode its prow a funeral pyre)