In the garden of the Virgins, that is, The garden of the House of the Vestals
(Your sweater draped across your shoulders As the narrow chill of the evening
Began to ribbon the Forum) , you walked With your head down, silent, a little amused,
But silent. Whatever else exists In the daily mystery of service & denial
I doubt celibacy plays much of a part for you; Yet there you were, at the ancient threshold.
The very threshold of life
The threshold of the divine flame.
Bye the ruins of the sacred House – thinking- - Whatever it was that you were thinking - the lush- - - complicated vines which even in winter bring life to the bare stones of the walls around us.
Yet for you, I know, a... time when once home had a fire, a hearth
A place where the flame of love struggled burst into vibrant life and dimmed
But like the memory of Vesta, to those who know, never quite died out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem