At the foot of my bed my mother hung a Black Virgin

At the foot of my bed my mother hung a Black Virgin.

And I love this Virgin

with an almost Italian devotion.

Virgo Lauretana, standing in a field of gold,

you make me think of a thousand crustaceans

for sale on wharves where not a breath of air

stirs the sleepy banners.

Virgo Lauretana, you know that in those hours

when I am not worthy to be loved by her,

your perfume refreshes my heart.