It was raining,
it was autumn,
a girl was in my arms.

Perhaps to the east
the moon rose
over the crest of the mountains;

to the south
a procession of ghosts came
swinging their censors of iron,

and somewhere a prickly pear
thrust forth its limb of thorns,
a lizard dashed under a rock.

But here it was raining,
a girl was in my arms,
and her skin was fragrant as wheat.

Perhaps in the valley a flock
of night herons settled in oaks
and the bittern heard their hoarse cries;

on the coast a wave
tossed a glass float on the beach
and only a starfish noticed.

But here it was raining,
it was autumn,
the girl's eyes were gray and laughing.

Somewhere a bell kept tolling,
a mother called her child,
and the child was singing;

in the universe a meteor was falling,
the wind stopped suddenly,
an ice crystal was forming.

But here the apples had ripened,
symphonies were playing,
and a girl smiled as she kissed me.

My heart was fiery, but scared
and breaking, for it was autumn
and raining,