*

She rode the Lion’s gate

In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
*
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness