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After a night of insomnia, the body slows:

Dear, but not his, not anyone’s – to have.

In sluggish veins the moan of arrows,

You smile at everyone, like a seraph.

After a night of insomnia, arms hang low,

You’re indifferent to friend or enemy,

In every random sound there’s a rainbow,

There’s a scent of Florence, sudden and icy.

Lips shine softly, and the shadows bright

Round hollow eyes. The midnight skies

Light this face – and out of dark of night,

One thing alone grows darker – our eyes.

19th July 1916