Sometimes is she beheld seated on a rock outside her cave, a mere glimmer in the half-dark of dusk or dawn, her lovely face grave and her unloosened hair all about her, blowing in the wind, and her lover on his knees by her lap, looking up at her with eyes in which burn all the fevers of the world, his hands tucking flowers in her hair, while overhead creak the ghost batwings as the air darkens round the lovers. Nick Joaquin, Jeronima










