Casida of the Impossible Hand
I want no more than a hand, A wounded hand, if possible. I want no more than a hand, even if I spend a thousand nights with no bed. It would be a pale lily of lime, a dove it would be, chained to my heart, the guard it would be, who on my last night would deny the moon entrance wholly. I want no more than that hand for daily unction, the white sheet of my dying. I want no more than that hand to bear a wing of my death. All the rest passes. Blush now without a name. Perpetual star. The rest is the other; sad breeze, While the hosts of leaves flee.