The flesh is sad, alas! and I read all the books.
Flee! there away! I feel that birds are drunk
To be among the unknown foam and skies!
Nothing, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes
keep back this heart steeped in the sea
O nights! or the clarity of my lonely lamp
On the empty paper whiteness
defends nor the young woman nursing her child.
I leave! Steamer swaying masts
weighed anchor for exotic lands! A
Boredom, wasted by cruel hopes, still believes in
the farewell of handkerchiefs!
Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages
Sont-ils de ceux qu'un vent penche sur les naufrages
Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots...
Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots!
0 comments:
Post a Comment