The woman, naked
the wind, restless
no calm wind, no patient passer-by
so restless it carries off the sun’s virginity
The woman runs her hand over herself
there is no secret
no trace of a hand
the sands drifting
The woman, naked in the wind
between desire and fever
can bear neither sleep nor restlessness
“there is no word”
and the woman hears: there is no secret
The woman, naked in the wind and the mirror
runs her hand over the body, over the woman
there is no feast in the realm of night
the end of the woman’s secrets was the end of the word
The woman, naked in the feast of wind and mirror and desert
runs her hand over the body, over the woman, over the night
no secret, no word
they have given the woman without a secret to the waters and to sleep
the woman knows
the woman without a secret is the exiled woman
The woman, naked, her hand on the mirror, on the sand, on the wind
the exiled woman
the end of the secret is the end of the word
the mirror, empty
They took the event from the night
the feast from the body
the longing from the opened dress
and beauty from the woman.
The woman, unbeautiful, naked, exiled, without a secret
runs her hand over the night, over desire, over fever.
