first came your voice
half-opening my doors
then you emerged leaving behind
a blind alley of puzzled clouds
o woman with a pigeon in her soul

your pitch-black hair streaming
you ran to and fro days on end
in the cross-currents of my being

shedding over me
the thousands of stars
concealed in your dimples
now tell me where your journey leads

should we all henceforth
each taking his own poem by the hand
enter from the opposite direction
the dead alley of butterflies

and yet you still abide with me
o woman with a pigeon in her soul