Your shoulders are a fan of purau leaves.
I cool myself under the boughs of your arms.
Your eyes are the eyes of the tropic bird,
Liquid and vulture-black,
Carrying the night of soft and perilous forests in them.
Your feet are a cluster of syringa blooms.
The young of the herons are in your care.
They feed trustingly out of the palms of your hands.
They give forth gladsome sounds when you caress them.
Your knees are arched and soft:
They make a rainbow of gold when you sleep.
Who am I that should fill my hands with this gold,
Or share in this sleep?