Like horrible frogs to the atmosphere,
dark faces rise to the lips.
On the blue Sahara of Substance
walks a gray verse, a dromedary.
A grimace of cruel dreams phosphoresces.
And the blind man who died full of snowy
voices. And to wake up, poet, nomad,
to the harsh day of being a man.
The Hours feverishly go on, and blond centuries
of joy are cut short in the recesses.
Who pulls the thread so much: who
without piety lowers our nerves,
threadbare strings, to the grave!
Love! And you too. Black stonings
are engendered in your mask and break it.
The grave is still
a woman’s sex that attracts man!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.| Original: |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1927. The author died in 1938, so this work is also in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 years or less. This work may also be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. |
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