The clouds are like a sombre sea:
On shining screens of ebony
Are carven marvels of my heart.
‘ Gainst crimson placques of cinnabar
Shrills, like a diamond, dawn's last star.
The gardens of my heart are green:
The rain drips off the glistening leaves.
In the humid gardens of my soul,
The crimson peonies explode.
I am like a drop of rose-flushed rain,
Clinging to crimson petals of love.
In the afternoon, over gold screens,
I will brush the blue dust of my dreams.