Gods drink to me clouded wine,
gods fall upon me as rain,
spread under me as grass,
clang and hiss at me as rivers,
gods bloom for me in my garden,
turn soil into a blossomed carpet,
hover above me as a hawk or crane,
wrap me in shape-pregnant mist,
gods are all the constellations of the night,
the whirling loom, the grinding stone,
the first cry and the last lament –
not for a moment am I left alone,
I never cease to stain this gaudy world
with my long hair soaked in paint,
like a sleep-stiffened brush in a rapid hand
much-skilled, but lacking balance and restraint.
