Marble, you no longer move
In their agile and skimpy arms
Under torrents of fire and hail
The majestic sinuous trees
Try to grapple your rose’s stalk
That of your body, inert, alone, morose
Those dark trees standing for the branches of my desire
Roughed up over and over again by a storm of passions

On the subdued soil of time through the wind
Like a veiled corpse living on a divan
Your kisses wither, blank of existence
Perfect bunch of flowers fit for an effigy
A statue erected by our violent patience
A bunch for sure, fit for nothing but a somber elegy
Facing death! A visage turned over to redeem.
Your body, lacking our decors’ agreement pours out

The blood of sacred love, the ideal love of the idea
That you held so close, so near, traced on the thinned out curves
Of my caresses, of my distresses, of my hips
You neither no longer are nor I am but a chanted fallen angel
Without you I can’t be, should I slay the Occident of your name
Of the moving geography of my fleshy map, my Orient
Between us, a mocking distance overhanging and weighting in the chasm
Of this Ocean shaped abyss, Mayday my soul! No!

Your absence is my grave, despite it being decked with flowers
What sort of beauty one should expect from a perfumed essence-less flower?

Translated on November 4, 2015