A woman’s voice, like the wind, rushes—
Nocturnal, moist and black
And as it flies, whatever it brushes
Changes and will not change back.
It’s a diamond-shine comes
to bathe and bless,
Things are draped in a silver light,
It rustles its suggestive dress.
Woven of fantasy, silken and bright.
And the power that propels the enchanted
Voice displays such hidden light,
It’s as if the grave were not ahead,
But mysterious stairs beginning their flight.
[1961]

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