The islands are pure.
Move­ments and the grotesque begin fur­ther away,
on continents.
What splen­dour! What masks!
Lat­er on there are pearls.
Here are figs, slave girls, bas­kets, the sev­en snakes.
Over there are my moth­er’s deserts.
I have nev­er bowed down before
the shows of form and custom.
No mat­ter how often I am mul­ti­plied by empires, snails, chasms
I still remain alone and purple
— an illu­sion between the sea and the mirror.
Lilies are my content.
This is how far I have come to know the gods. 
This is my final mor­tal domain.
The light is high and austere.
I grow towards silver
                     barefoot.
I sub­merge in the dreams of algae.
Is that death trav­el­ling across the deep lands?
I just hope it won’t pass me by. There are forty veils on me.
Not a sin­gle one inside me.
My skin is dark.
 

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