You go back quickly to your coldness.
And since you have no colours on your clothes,
You walk in straight and measured lilts
As befits the seriously blind.
Your women do not stroll as though
Each step were a timid intrigue
Woven into the climax to which they fare.
Pistols, rhapsodies and heavy odours
Drugged the lustre of my time.
Yet, we had a virtue.