She crossed the sea climbing hill after hill
The land made her blister
Only the interiour sun was faithfully searing her sores
She used to eat fallen apples like a manicheist
Empty like desert shaggy like a black goat

She found a solitude a place where there is no need for miracles
To invirginate a mother
She lived in that forest for the rest of her life
With her beauty dressed in sackcloth and known by no one
Except from a flock of nightingales who told me about her

They told she was wearing her shirt still low-cut
On her breast as hard as the wax of certainties
That her skirt was still red with questioning pleats
That she was combing long as a Berenice of the hairdressers

In winter she was getting warm in the rough clothes of her old loves
Drowned in the luxurious merrymaking image
Never pure – a happiness of vice clean and fresh
Murmuring unwrinkled melodies
As a queen of waters turning into sand

In summer she was wearing only her wavy hair
Bound at her waist with an anorectic scourge
Strange version of an insignificant nakedness
With a sharp smell of holiness
Of crude skin tanned in the fear of the animals

She used to lose her breath in a mirror leaned against the rock
Caressing the skull of a stag remembering how she used to anoint his hooves
How she wiped them with her bushy locks
With the same trawl she caught all the others

The nightingales hushed in the nooks
When she was aiming at the core of the absent blue flame
They knew she started a strong relationship with the candle