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O ma fleurette africaine,

What flower falls from your hands?

O ma danseuse africaine,

What lightwave breaks at your foot?

O folle, O chaotique—

You move among your brothers

And among the husbands

Of your sisters, as the grass moved

In the doorway

Of the house where you were born.

What fire strode down

That cool morning, from the sky?

What rough element dove there,

What jittering mercury?

Your mother bore you dancing :

Our of her death, bore you, dancing.

Your body is her body, fleurette.

Your breasts glisten in the firelight.