[part of a series of Rimbaud and Villon transmutations/translations]
C’est le repose clear, not fever, not languor,
sur le, on the, l’ami, friend, Lamia, send me
more to aim at, come. Le deux extremes of
the room and the cold dream inside it. Du
foyer noir, black sun, black hearth. L’aimée.
The wreathèd vale. The entombed. Are you here?
She lies on the black water, a fantôme white.
The red-gold hair, the red-gold hair, the fleur
of the fleuve, the fleurs there. Attend the sad
air’s murmurs, the vast front of all that is bare.
Je sais, the white snow lay fair round full, black
pond. O could a river end here.
Extract the bared, fallen leaves. The cold pressed,
is enough to,... Read more