I have a warm liaison
With the spur of the night;
There is such astute reason,
That can perforate through the moon:
I thought of lines that could
Croon to your immaculate soul
As if crowning you with jewels,
Your eyes of diamonds that salute the sky;
Or maybe, endow you to a throne
That would match your patrician ways
-
I have a cold liaison with the night;
The speck of time but not a speck of light
That in my poetry I:
Could run my fingertips through your hair,
I could swim underneath your other-worldly scent,
If then so, poetry would permit me to clasp my hands
With yours and match crease after crease until
There is a world unsheathed from the billowing sighs
In between hands as hungry as mouths;
Then tonight, let me write poetry and writhe from head
To the hushed ground;
-
Look, in my poetry I have you in my arms:
Delicate, warm, flushed skin
Glinting, sugar-coated teeth
Sweat - the salt on your skin like dew dropping
Unto the serrated grass,
Eyes that have an indifferent allure,
The kind of eyes that one finds himself lost,
As if staring a thousand-yards into the vast spaces
In between the celestial and the definite;
Voice as if listening to regal bodies waltz
Unto cedar floors, the wind chiming the chandeliers
And blowing the singe out of the candles
All of this, in my own world of uncompromising verses –
-
But then, I have an ephemeral liaison with the night
And its frigid poetry that seizes without remorse
I may have deluded myself with prose and wishful thinking –
Then, this, a waxing promenade with the cold hands of
Impossibilities within the harsh world of the fragrant night
And flagrant poetry – that, no matter how I enamor myself to,
And no breadth of passion can withdraw me
And my imprisoned soul – that is, I am a prisoner of my own self,
From this selfish liaison that I have with the night and verses;
-
And so, no matter how lengthy these verses may go,
And these nights fall upon the sleeping cities,
Sleeping souls, eyes that are wide awake,
No substance that is too fair,
That a disillusioned poetry may lead me
To her hands, my truant muse,
And melt with me, like fluid – as one,
Never, and this will not materialize in eternal nights
Of short-lived petty verses
And so I know that the night, the verses and I
Will somewhat propel me to you, my muse,
And take me back again to where I began,
In this elbow room of looming anguish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem