The summer stars up there discover
a clearing. Down they shine
on pots of wine we stop with wet
turbans of clay that catch the glow.
Wine wakes the heart for hunting. Hills
and antilope it promises. Drink up, it says,
enjoy, for nothing of remembered life
is left but freshness of the single senses.
A shelled almond´s aroma.
Your silver necklace, tinkling.
A green and soft light
in the gardens of Basra.
Shall we drink up then to good old times?
To the dune´s ridge, whiter
than white, whiter still than paper –
do you recall these words of mine on it?
And to the parrot, redder than red, perching
beside a turban? Redder than blood?
Do you recall the blood? Recall, chirping
themselves to their long death in us, the cicadas?