Poésie. Poetry

POETRY

IN the grip of the surprise, A mouth that has been drinking At the breast of Poetry Jerks its downiness away:

- O my mother Intelligence, From which all sweetness flowed, What is this negligence That lets your milk run dry!

Scarcely at rest on your bosom, Overwhelmed with pure bonds, I was lulled by the sea waters Of your heart laden with goods;

Scarcely, within your sombre sky, Exhausted by your beauty, I sensed, as I drank the darkness, My being invaded with light!

God lost in his own essence, And therefore exquisitely Receptive to the knowledge Of supreme assurances,

I am one with the pure night, I no longer know how to die, For a river without end Seems to be running through me ...

Tell me, by what fruitless fear, By what shadow of despite, This marvellous inspiration Has been cut off from my lips?

O rigour, you signal to me That I no longer please my soul! The silence of the swan's flight Can between us no longer reign!

Immortal one, your closed eye Refuses me my treasures, And the flesh is turned to stone That was soft under my body!

You deprive me of the heavens, By what unjust reversal? What will you be without my lips? What will I be without love?

But the Source suspended thus Answers me without harshness: - With such force you have bitten me That my heart has ceased to beat!