SONNET XVIII

Through the mountains you pass like the breeze
or the sudden quickening that falls from the snow,
or your hair, throbbing with light, confirms
the high glittering of sun in the thicket.

All the light of the Caucasus falls on your body
as though into a little vase of glass, infinite,
where the water transforms itself, by dressing, by singing
at every transparent move of the river.

Through the mountains the ancient road of warriors
and below it seething, shines like a sword,
water between ramparts of mineral hands,

until you receive from the woods, in a moment,
the branch or lightning flash of some blue flower
and the unknown arrow of a wild fragrance.