In the sun death has started his work.
He has begun his sweet feast.
The warm fields are effused with darkness.
We walk now with pious feet over naked roads
and are blessed overall by his majesty.
Somewhere someone has gotten the worst of it.
And every woman is predisposed
to mix her blood with the black suns
that from the hems of our own blood have risen up.
O spring, sun-drunk and caught off guard