My black sun, my
Odessa sunflower,
spurs of Tartar gold
ring at your ankles,
you stand taller before me than the ten
towers of Jerusalem.

Your tongue has found
my tongue, peonies
turn their profusion towards
the lamp, it is you that burn there,
the Black Sea sings you awake.

Wake the violoncellos of Lebanon,
rub the bows with cedar resin,
wake the Tundra horsemen
to hunt tigers.
                      Your skin
tastes of the salt of Marmora,
the hair of your body casts
its net over me.
                         To my closed eyes
appears a curved
horizon where darkness
dazzles in your light. Your arms
hold me from falling.