So littlewas the warrior, how she held outher slimmed down armsto the flowers I carriedand to all that which crumbledin such a theatrical New York eveningshe was lovely and bright, drinkingthe last of the champagne to avoidthat burning in her throat - And she raised her clear eyestearful but not weeping, bold, alonedivining with her torment’s radarthe firesthe sand-grain shoutingthat assails us now...She was working on her rage, the morningthat I left her in discordand friendship on the stairsshe was a statue of the guildsin the portal of a luminousFlorentine cathedral yet to come