If there are men who contain a soul without frontiers,
a brow scattered with universal hair,
covered with horizons, ships, and mountain chains,
The field has retreated,
Everything is full of you
and I am full of everything:
the cities are full,
and the cemeteries are full,
An onion is frost
shut in and poor.
Frost of your days
and of my nights.
The world is as it appears
before my five senses,
and before yours, which are
I come, blood on blood,
like the sea, wave on wave.
I have a soul the colour of poppies.
The luckless poppy is my destiny,
Friend of my soul, I want to be
the tearful gardener of the earth
you occupy, and enrich, all too soon.
Like a young fig tree
you were, on the cliffs.
And when I passed by
you rang in the mountains.
It did not recognise the meeting
of the he and she.
The blossom so enamoured
could not become flowery.
Upon the dead I am sitting
Who have laid still for two months,
Their empty shoes I have kissed