The night

She washes herself with her large stone urn

in the shelter of black rocks in an Arcadian lake,

frigid water which extinguishes the supreme fire...

she washes herself with the image of forests.

Her long body, rising softly from the maters,

breathes, shaking off her necklace of greenish water.

She watches glide away the dim, watery reflection of the sky,

inverted, floating on the cypresses.

She is cold. The night-dew beads on her brown skin.

Her steely, furtive eyes are filled with the moon.

She waits for the last sound to die on the water...

Then, turning her eyes towards her uncertain shoulder,

she, with her long, willowy fingers,

twists her dark hair, from which streams the night.