When sweethearts talk
through trees
and across thousands of unhappy ways,
when they wasp ivy
as it could be a song,
when they find grace
in the agitated spikes
high flourishing,
when lovers moan
they are lords of earth
and are nearest to God
like the drunkest saints.
When sweethearts talk of death
they talk of life forever
by a parley in a fine esperanto
He only knows.
Their language is desecrator,
but requires neverending grace
of a noble absolution.

(tr.Vanhacker)