Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”)
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It rains in my heart
As it rains on the town;
Heavy languor and dark
Drenches my heart.
Oh, the sweet-sounding rain
Cleansing pavements and roofs!
For my listless heart's pain
The pure song of the rain!
Still it rains without reason
In my overcast heart.
Can it be there's no treason?
That this grief's without reason?
As my heart floods with pain,
Lacking hatred, or love,
I've no way to explain
Such bewildering pain!
Published by Better Than Starbucks
Paul-Marie Verlaine (1844-1896) was a French poet and a prominent figure in the Symbolist and Decadent poetry movements. Verlaine has been called "one of the most purely lyrical of French poets." Keywords/Tags: Verlaine, French, translation, rain, languor, heart, treason, reason, pain, hatred, love
Evening sun's, hot pulsating lips,
fervently seek the ocean blue, touch
for a sizzling, long,passionate kiss.
The ecstasy resulted makes inroads
as waves of anesthetic darkness,
engulfing the glow of consciousness
bringing the world as a whole
in to a soporiferous languor,pleasurable.
A white porcelain coffee cup
she gently raises up to her lips
with a satiated look on her face;
this gift, a much awaited moment
attained by satisfying her yen
not for choicest, gourmet food alone.
Those dark droopy eyes, suggest
a luxurious languor, she does cherish,
as long as the after tremors would last.
Slyly she looks at his swollen red lips
with a crafted guilt, it gives her yet
another high, sending ripples over
her *******, his eyes do a recce on this
then go up to her lips,finds his ardor
last hour had made them crimson all over,
throwing his head backwards he smiles at her.
there is a pane of glass
which now occupies the air between us
an indifferent arrow has flown through it
leaving a web of cracks
for which I am trapped
reaching for you
the light you bend reaches across room
the same distance travels your voice
it makes me a ghost not to touch you with all that I am
exhaling wanting in your direction
as stars are brought down over head
by the weight of unfulfilled wishes
victim to a whisper
pious to an echo
tomorrow I'll be swallowed
I didn't even need a name
lost and unwanted things are entitled
to each other so long as they don't hide
it's an open hand
it's a broken window
it's a perpetually naive sky
it's off beat but we're out of line
and I'm waiting for you
one hundred percent of the time
out of context
misshapened in parallax
past my expiration date
but you looked at me in a way that dared both of us to exist
when all this is dust
the loudest we'll ever get to be is a secret
"It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us." - Buddy Wakefield, Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars
— The End —