I’m beneath the bramble,
easy, wanton,
I raised its thorns
towards you laughing,
light beats upon the expanse,
each fold in my dress
whispers to me:
“White and quaking
you go out
towards death.”
You appear – 
and lightly I exult
brandishing a glittering sword - 
and at high noon
in fields white with light
I issued our sentence
as one! 

1922