The Poet Asks His Love to Write Him
O love of my heart, living death,
in vain I await your written word,
and think, with the withered flower: if I
must live without myself, I wish to lose you.
Air is immortal. The lifeless stone
can neither know the shadow nor avoid it.
And the inner heart doesn't need
the frozen honey flowing from the moon.
But I suffered you, tore open my veins,
tiger and dove on your waist,
caught in a duel of lilies and bites.
Fill, then, with words my madness,
or let me live in the serene,
eternal dark night of the soul.
O secret voice of dark love!
O bleating without fleece! O wound!
O needle of gall, sunken camellia!
O current without sea, city without walls!
O immense night of sure profile,
celestial mountain tall with anguish!
O dog in the heart, beleaguered voice,
boderless silence, ripened lily!
Away from me, simmering voice of ice,
and lose me not among the weeds
where flesh and heaven moan, leaving no fruit.
Forsake the hard ivory of my head,
take pity on me, break my pain!
For I am love, for I am nature!