Sonnet XXIII
The light that climbs from your feet to your hair,
the mantle enveloping your delicate form,
are not sea’s nacre, or frozen silver:
you are bread, bread, dear to the fire.
The grain built its silo around you, and rose,
increased by a golden age,
while its wheaten surge recreated your breasts,
my love was an ember labouring in earth.
Oh, bread of your forehead, your legs, and your mouth,
bread I consume, born each day with the light,
dear one, the bake-houses’ banner and sign:
the fire taught your blood its lessons,
you learnt sacredness from grain,
and your language, your perfume are bread.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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