Your lines on my face,
Your heart in my shrine,
Your wick on my lamp,
I bear, dearest of the dears!
My imagination’s reality you are,
In the recesses of my psychic,
With image of word you install sense
And as my Focal, you stand, my love,
For you I make time nomadic,
Hi my Gypsy darling, -!
In the vacant field of my childish love
I imagined you as watching shepherd,
Or an Empress for my outlawed dreams!
The daemon -haunted, -transient adolescence,
Too unwise to see you, -in crowds and burrows,
And a blue Shari, by the river Nile or pastoral Fair,
Linked my gypsy to you, -there, -where! ! Cried I!
Your lines, half transparent, half confused,
Had their foil ages, in my blooming tree,
And with the glided youth in sunny manhood,
You began to turn all my gypsy mood,
And now the image of you is clear,
Which I bear, -o me, o my dearest,
My me is your lines, you are the best.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem