The golden girl
bathed in the water,
and the water turned to gold.

The weeds and branches
in shadow surprised her,
and the nightingale sang
for the white girl.

And the bright night came,
clouded dark silver,
with barren mountains
in the umber breeze.

The wet girl
was white in the water
and the water, blushed.

The dawn came without stain,
with its thousand bovine faces,
stiff and shrouded there
with frosty garlands.

The girl of tears
bathed among tears,
and the nightingale wept
with burning wings.

The golden girl
was a white heron
and the water turned her gold.