L’étoile a pleuré rose au coeur de tes oreilles, L’infini roulé blanc de ta nuque à tes reins La mer a perlé rousse à tes mammes vermeilles Et l’homme saigné noir à ton flanc souverain.
We delay and lower our voice Amongst the slow rows of the cemetery, Which rhetoric of shadow and marble Promises or prefigures the desirable Dignity of being dead.
you will give me that shore of your life that you yourself do not own. Cast up into silence I shall discern that ultimate beach of your being and see you for the first time, perhaps, as God must see you
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, your gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.