Because of your feet, where your beauty ends
in ten fragments of whiteness, more a dance,
a dove ascends to your waist,
an unending balm falls to earth.
Along with your feet goes the wonder
of nacre, in a ridiculous narrowness,
and where your feet go whiteness goes,
a dog sowing anklets of jasmine.
At your feet, as much foam as shore,
sand and sea reach me , and ebb from me,
I try to enter the sheepfold of your sole
I enter and let myself pass to your soul itself,
with the loving voice of grapes:
trample my heart, now it's ripe