The poem
She has not yet been born: she is music and word, and therefore the untorn, fabric of what is stirred.
Silent the ocean breathes. Madly day's glitter roams. Spray of pale lilac foams, in a bowl of grey-blue leaves.
May my lips rehearse the primordial silence, like a note of crystal clearness, sounding, pure from birth!
Stay as foam Aphrodite — Art — and return, Word, where music begins: and, fused with life's origins, be ashamed heart, of heart!