Tonight, the moon dreams more lazily;
As well as a beauty, on many cushions,
Who with a distracted and light hand caresses
Before falling asleep the outline of her breasts,
On the satin back of soft avalanches,
Dying, she indulges in long swoons,
And walk her eyes over the white visions
Which rise in the azure like blossoms.
When sometimes on this globe, in its idle languor,
She lets slip a furtive tear,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep,
In the palm of his hand takes this pale tear,
With iridescent reflections like a fragment of opal,
And put it in his heart away from the eyes of the sun.
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Not by me, its originally written by a French poet, in which I simply translated the poem into English.