The poem
Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn.