XI

The clouds are like a sombre sea:

On shining screens of ebony

Are carven marvels of my heart.

‘ Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar

Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star.

The gardens of my heart are green:

The rain drips off the glistening leaves.

In the humid gardens of my soul,

The crimson peonies explode.

I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain,

Clinging to crimson petals of love.

In the afternoon, over gold screens,

I will brush the blue dust of my dreams.