You stood half-turned to me,
Chest and your hand seems to me.
Mother forbids you to approach,
I - the temptation to offend you!
Not, I lowered my eyes in vain,
breathes, persecutes, close - thunderstorm…
My eyes lit on your cheek,
The thrill of running through the shaking hand…
There is a growing range of your fire me,
You, not looking, looking at me!
Ash veiled rapid fire -
Your not looking, rolling your eyes!
Not! Not reconcile this black blood
Even - date, even - love!
2 January 1914