A Stone
They loved that mirror
Whose frame, though chipping away, was still
Adorned with horns of plenty from the golden age.
Two dancing figures faced each other,
The shoulders and bellies were bare,
The hands
Touched, clasped one another,
But the eyes, it is true, did not meet.
They put
The mirror in the ground, under the snow,
Like grain; like the corn of heaven
That must rot for a long time in the mud of the world.
Yves Bonnefoy
