it rained in June
and that odd feeling of liberty
from the tip of the cherry tree
was watching me again
from somewhere else
archimboldo widely opened the windows
the kiss moisten by cherries
on the memory easel
until
our shadows liquefied tenderly
in Sunday clothing
on the streets of Saint Germain
Cercueils de plomb dormaient à poings fermés
Comme fleurs de plomb, funéraire vêtement –
Moi. Le caveau !... il y faisait du vent.
Pour faire pendant, couronnes de plomb grinçaient.
Dos tourné, mon amour de plomb dormait
Sur fleurs de plomb ; j’entrepris de l’appeler –
Le mort – seul. Et moi… le froid y régnait…
traducere personală a poemului meu "sfârşitul perioadei albastre"
if others slithered between two air columns
the child who had never learned the race was running
as if swimming face to face with an ocean’s wall
his head like an iron ball
dragging the motionless body
only as far as the tethered roots could stretch
when his father carried him on his shoulders
the child felt through his nostrils
how the man’s steps slice the air
how the wind passes close to the ears as if
walking is another kind of flight allowed only to others
a perfectly directed music
I start putting together colorful pieces of glass, a winding mosaic
reminding me of gaudi
he never saw it but you know lately
he used to lift his glasses up on his nose
with the hand holding a pencil
and he would tell me there’s still time for a walk
let’s have something to eat first
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