Unbare not yet your pallid hands,
O trembling veil.
Honeyed poison are the draughts
that dwell upon your lips.

Like water’s hue,
a moment not forgot.
Like some lone star above the fen,
you are the only one.

Speak not the names
that smoulder in the dark;
let them abide but as a whisper,
snared in lashes’ quivering.

Let touch be but a foretoken,
no pledge of coming day.
Within the night, truth lies more soft
than bread new-broken.

If you should fade and leave no trace,
I’ll know: so must it be.
For what burns over-near
is born to wane.

Tomaž Jevšenak