Playing her parchment
Precosia comesalong a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeingfrom her rhythmic tambourine,falls where the sea whips and sings,his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaksthe sentinels are weeping;they guard the tall white towersof the English consulate.
And gypsies of the waterfor their pleasure erectlittle castles of conch shellsand arbors of greening pine.
Playing her parchment
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,watching the girl as he playswith tongues of celestial bellson an invisible bagpipe.
Gypsy, let me lift your skirtand have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingersthe blue rose of your womb.
Precosia throws the tambourineand runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues herwith his breathing and burning sword.
The sea darkens and roars,while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,and a muted gong of the snow.
Precosia, run,
Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run,
Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born starswith their long and glistening tongues.
Precosia, filled with fear,now makes her way to that housebeyond the tall green pineswhere the English consul lives.
Alarmed by the anguished cries,three riflemen come running,their black capes tightly drawn,and berets down over their brow.
The Englishman gives the gypsya glass of tepid milkand a shot of Holland ginwhich Precosia does not drink.
And while she tells them, weeping,of her strange adventure,the wind furiously gnashesagainst the slate roof tiles.
