When Psyche—life—goes down to the shades,
To search for Persephone in the translucent forest,
A blind swallow flings itself at her feet
With Stygian tenderness and a green twig.
A throng of shades rushes towards the fugitive,
Greeting the new companion with lamentations,
And they wring their weak hands at her
With bewilderment, shyly hopeful.
One holds out a mirror, another a flask of perfume—
The soul is a woman after all, she likes trinkets,
And the leafless forest of transparent voices
Is sprinkled with dry laments like fine rain.
And not knowing where to begin in this tender commotion,
The soul does not recognize the transparent groves;
She breathes on the mirror and delays handing over
The copper lozenge for the foggy ferrying