This angelic woman with Northern eyes,
who lives attentive to the rhythm of her European blood,
is unaware that in the depths of that rhythm
a black man beats the hard heads of deep drums.

Under the severe line of her sharp nose,
her mouth traces a short line in a fine stroke,
and no crow dirties the untrodden snow
of her flesh, that shines tremulous and bare.

Oh, my lady! Look at your mysterious veins;
row in the live waters that flow inside of you,
and see passing by lilies, nelumbiums, lotuses and roses;

and, troubled, you will see next to the fresh bank
the sweet dark shadow of the grandfather who fled,
the one who curled forever your yellow hair.