Playing her parchment moon Precosia comes along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights. The starless silence, fleeing from her rhythmic tambourine, falls where the sea whips and sings, his night filled with silvery swarms. High atop the mountain peaks the sentinels are weeping; they guard the tall white towers of the English consulate. And gypsies of the water for their pleasure erect little castles of conch shells and arbors of greening pine. Playing her parchment moon Precosia comes. The wind sees her and rises, the wind that never slumbers. Naked Saint Christopher swells, watching the girl as he plays with tongues of celestial bells on an invisible bagpipe. Gypsy, let me lift your skirt and have a look at you. Open in my ancient fingers the blue rose of your womb. Precosia throws the tambourine and runs away in terror. But the virile wind pursues her with his breathing and burning sword. The sea darkens and roars, while the olive trees turn pale. The flutes of darkness sound, and a muted gong of the snow. Precosia, run, Precosia! Or the green wind will catch you! Precosia, run, Precosia! And look how fast he comes! A satyr of low-born stars with their long and glistening tongues. Precosia, filled with fear, now makes her way to that house beyond the tall green pines where the English consul lives. Alarmed by the anguished cries, three riflemen come running, their black capes tightly drawn, and berets down over their brow. The Englishman gives the gypsy a glass of tepid milk and a shot of Holland gin which Precosia does not drink. And while she tells them, weeping, of her strange adventure, the wind furiously gnashes against the slate roof tiles.