My love wanders the rooms, melodious,
flute notes, plucked wires,
full of a wine the magi drank
on the way to Bethlehem.
We are three. The moon comes
from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher
of water down in the center.
The circle of surface flames.
One of us kneels to kiss the threshold-dust.
One drinks with wine-flames playing over his face.
One watches the gathering
and says to any cold onlookers,
This dance is the joy of existence.
