Your hair consoles me.
I have bound myself to you.
Your flesh has become the earth;
your eyes are the western sky.
I hear wind in the leaves
when I touch your hair.

In the morning,
it is a blanket of mist
waiting for the sun. In the morning,
lay your head on my chest.
Your hair against my cheek
will be all my remembering.

Wet, your hair strikes fire in me.
You have the body of a wild creature–
smooth and strong as the catamount.
Come, stand with me,
naked in this stream,
my hands in your hair.

And this hair–
the moss that grows by the rose–
this thicket, this forest, this island,
my homeland.
The fragrance of rose embraces me,
lost in your labyrinthine garden.