Mon coeur triste, mon coeur amer,
Mon coeur est pareil à la mer
Qu’un flux et qu’un reflux déploie.
Des vagues y roulent aussi :
Celles qui s’en vont sont ma joie.
Celles qui viennent mon souci !
I don’t know how many things there are in this world that have no name. The soft inner side of the elbow, webbed skin between the fingers, a day that wanders out beyond the tidal limits and no longer knows how to summon the moon it has lost, my firstborn who gazes about himself when the TV dies and there is a strange absence in his world. I was looking for a great encyclopaedia, the secret dictionary of all the missing words. I wanted to consult its index and find out what I could have become.
A mountain spring randomly flows over the steps:
a small house among thousands of peach flowers.
Before getting up, I leaf through a Daoist book
and watch her combing her hair under the crystal curtain.
“Who hath not felt that breath in the air,
A perfume and freshness strange and rare,
A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,
When young hearts yearn together?
All sweets below, and all sunny above,
Oh! there's nothing in life like making love,
Save making hay in fine weather!”
Ribs ripple skin
Up to the nipples—
Noah, equipped, knew
Every one has two—
This ark I am in
Embarks my twin
Lightning hits the mirror and the people it holds.
Their silhouettes fall to the floor,
wisps of silver foil.
Alone on the wet marble,
you tap the empty glass and listen
for an echo.
Min Musa nys
Gav mig et Digtningens Kys.
Hun Billeder malte;
Ak, jeg veed Intet af Det, hun fortalte.
Sligt kan man glemme! -
Min Tanke var hjemme.
Mildt paa din Pande læser man: Fyrstinden,
Men i dit Øie — Moderhjertet — Qvinden.
Mig Gamle spørger Du Unge,
Hvad Skjæbne Dig forestaaer.
'Pyt', sagde Peer til Kongen!
Ja det er det Svar, Du faaer.
Like black ice
Scrolled over with unintelligible patterns
by an ignorant skater
Is the dulled surface of my heart.
