With laggard love she saw dispersed the
Colors of the evening. She was pleased
To lose herself in complex melody
Or in the rather curious life of verses.
Not basic red but grays of every hue spun
For her her thread of delicate destiny,
Made to discriminate, exercised well and truly
In vacillation and every tint of nuance.
Never daring at all tread that perplexed
Labyrinth, she looked on from outside
The forms and all the tumult and the ride,
Like that other lady of the glass.
Gods whose dwelling-place is past all prayer
Abandoned her unto that tiger, Fire.
 
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney

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Marina Carriba Rossello
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