And will he never return to life again? Will he not return
On nights filled with trembling stars, or in the pure light
Of virgin mornings, or in the sacrificed afternoons?
Never will he return to the edge of some path with a fence
That encloses the field, or beside some
White, sparkling fountain beneath the moon?
Never will he return to the tangled curls of the forest
Where, calling to him, the night unfolded over me?
Nor to the caves that echoed back the sound of my call?
Oh, no! To see him again, I would run wherever he might be found—
On the narrow pathways of the sky or in the dizzying swirls,
Near the quiet moons or in a black terror!
And we would be together every springtime
And every winter, knotted into an anguished knot
Around his neck, slick with blood!
