I am too near to be dreamt of by him. I do not fly over him, do not escape from him under the roots of a tree. I am too near. Not in my voice sings the fish in the net, not from my finger rolls the ring. I am too near. A big house is on fire without me, calling for help. Too near for a bell dangling from my hair to chime. Too near to enter as a guest before whom walls glide apart by themselves. Never again will I die so lightly, so much beyond my flesh, so inadvertently as once in his dream. Too near. I taste the sound, I see the glittering husk of this word as I lie immobile in his embrace. He sleeps, more accessible now to her, seen but once a cashier of a wandering circus with one lion, than to me, who am at his side. For her now in him a valley grows, russet-leaved, closed by a snowy mountain in the bright blue air. I am too near to fall to him from the sky. My scream could wake him up. Poor thing I am, limited to my shape, I who was a birch, who was a lizard, who would come out of my cocoons shimmering the colors of my skins. Who possessed the grace of disappearing from astonished eyes, which is a wealth of wealths. I am near, too near for him to dream of me. I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.