The one who has kept, in spite of winter
A memory of grapes on her cheeks
Follows a slow couple with her eyes;
They cross the stone bridge towards
A bit of forest where the blue shadows
Of foxes lie in ambush. All that
Silently claims its portion of hate,
At the hour when young women
Leave the house, heavy with snow,
Their heads still full of night, careless from having
Drunk mulled wine and spun
The linen of their sheets between games, forfeits
And lies, beneath the gaze
Of men waxing harnesses.