The hill is like night against the clear sky. Your head framed against it, barely moving, and moving with the sky. You are like a cloud seen between branches. In your eyes the laughter and strangeness of a sky that is not yours.

The hill of earth and leaves halts your bright gaze with its dark mass, your mouth has the curve of a gentle hollow between distant slopes. You seem to play with the great hill and the clearness of the sky: to please me you echo the ancient background and make it purer.

         But you live elsewhere.

Your gentle blood came from elsewhere. The words you say have no meeting-point with the rugged sadness of this sky. You are only a white and sweetly gentle cloud entangled one night among ancient branches.