The Lake by the Monastery

Black horsemen, white riders.
Saintly figures—on the wall, cruel soldiers.

Wave to waves. Horse to horses. Pursued by the Moor.
On the shore, a girl. On the crumbling shore.

A young maiden stands on the shifting shoreline.
The sun is descending on the spear of a ballad.

The wind a horseman; the riders, winds.
We’re the same age, water—from two worlds, twins.

Water, you spring from the heart of the fresco;
my throat from the sun; my eyes, grapes of fever.

A young maiden stands on the shifting shoreline.
The sun is dying on the spear of a ballad.

Where has the all-powerful word gone which seeks you,
to reverberate inside you like a golden coin?

The water is returning to the fresco on the wall.
And with it the word and the flame on the hill.