Some day, if I should ever lose you, will you be able then to go to sleep without me softly whispering above you like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching and saying words as tender as eyelids that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast, upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

Without my touching you and leaving you alone with what is yours, like a summer garden that is overflowing with masses of melissa and star-anise?

Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming