[Stolen? that is exactly how]

Stolen? that is exactly how

she watches over, how she protects

that belated love of hers,

she, I recall, not a woman much sought after,

not even in other days. She knows she's wan,

hard, her lot contemptible.

-My god, how can he desire me-

all too much she belittles herself

or in that secret thought

(she herself suspects it) flatters herself

-Silly woman, as if you didn't know-

but she knows. She knows, she has no doubts. How

could she? It's her incurable meagerness

he's after, her irremediable lack

-and he does it tenderly, not to humiliate me-

she tells herself, and thinks back on the man

in another guise, sees him radiant and hiding

himself in her, and her shadow

as if in some necessary escape.

And she takes him in, gives him shelter.

And is grateful to him. Grateful for this.