Slowly, slowly will you mount this staircase
–A heap of sun-tinged leaves upon your skirts–
And for a while gaze weeping at the sky. . .

The waters darken and your face grows pale,
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes. . .

Bowed towards the earth, the roses,
Flame-like the nightingales bleed upon the boughs;
Has morning turned to bronze, do waters burn?

This is a secret tongue that fills the soul
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes. . .

translated by Bernard Lewis