Never let me lose the marvel 
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent 
the solitary rose of your breath 
places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore, 
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret 
is having no flower, pulp, or clay 
for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure, 
if you are my cross, my dampened pain, 
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained, 
and adorn the branches of your river 
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.