Wednesday, 23 December 2009


Never try to trick me with a kiss

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Saturday, 21 November 2009



Black Horse with White Chest

Black hindquarters, white chest:
he flies on the wings of the wind.

When you look at him you see dark night
opening, giving way to dawn.

Sons of Shem and Ham live harmoniously
in him, and take no care for the words
of would-be troublemakers.

Men’s eyes light up when they see
reflected in his beauty

the clear strong black and white
of the eyes of beautiful women.

--Ibn Sa‘id al-Maghribi
1214-1274 Central Andalusia

Wednesday, 28 October 2009


WHAT'S riches to him

That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten,stone -grey,
And desolate
Three RockWould nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay
Adding feather to feather
For the pride of his eye.
WHAT'S riches to him
That has made a great peacock
With the pride of his eye?
The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
And desolate
Three RockWould nourish his whim.
Live he or die
Amid wet rocks and heather,
His ghost will be gay
Adding feather to feather
For the pride of his eye.
William Butler Yeats

Monday, 12 October 2009



Rhapsody on a Windy Night
by T. S. Eliot

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

Thursday, 8 October 2009


My birthday song:

I plan to soar,
I plan to roar.
The bird in me
Will teach me how to soar.
The lion in me
Will teach me how to roar.
I plan to love,
Below, above.
The lover in me will teach me
How to love
Below, above.

Sri Chinmoy was born in India and came to the West in 1964. Sri Chinmoy lived in New York, until his Mahasamadhi in 2007.

Sri Chinmoy is a spiritual teacher who dedicated his life in the service of humanity. he endeavoured to inspire and serve mankind with his soulful offerings - his prayers and meditations, literary, musical and artistic works.

Saturday, 3 October 2009


my current personism loves pictures like these

UmweltIII (HOME), 2007

Rob Seward's interests include the sublime,communication, and internal psychological exploration. He has lectured at the Centre Pompidou, Paris; the Chelsea Art Museum; and Location One, both in New York City. His work is widely exhibited in the US and Europe. He holds a master's from the Interactive Telecommunications Program (ITP) at New York University's .

Monday, 28 September 2009


Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Pablo Neruda was born in Parral, Chile. He studied in Santiago in the twenties. From 1927 to 1945 he was the Chilean consul in Rangoon, in Java, and then in Barcelona. He joined the Communist Party after the Second World War. Between 1970 and 1973 he served in Allende’s Chilean Government as ambassador to Paris. He died shortly after the coup that ended the Allende Government.

Monday, 21 September 2009


Hai Tian ,1951,Dongan county, Hunan province.
Member of Chinese Artists Association, deputy of the Traditional Chinese Painting Committee of Hunan Painter Association, vice chairman of the Hunan Gongbi Painting Association, Hunan branch and chairman of the Xiaoxiang Gongbi Painting Art Research Institute.
. The whole realm of artistic world lies open for him to explore. He often rebuilds his unique artistic "microcosms" from the universe through a demonstration of aesthetic manifold structure, which integrates national style with the modern sense, the concrete with the abstract, the void with the real and the philosophic idea with wild flavor. His works are unique and graceful, creating a deep and implicit world imbued with poetic and philosophic conceptions. Critics say that his works have a peculiar style of natural grace and make his master of a school. They also say that his paintings reveal poetic beauty and intelligence.
("A Collection of Works by One Hundred Outstanding Chinese Painters", "A Collection of Works by the Prize-winners in the Eighth National Paintings Exhibition", "A Collection of Ink-and-wash by the Greatest Chinese Painters in the World", and the "Gems of 20th Century Chinese Paintings". His artistic achievements were taken down in many large dictionaries in china and other countries such as "Dictionary of the World's Modern Artists". In 1997, he was elected as "One of the Hundred Chinese Most Outstanding Painters" by the Chinese Writers and Artists Association)
Li Qingzhao : 李清照; : 李清照, Wade-Giles; Li Ch'ing-chao,pseudonym Yi'an Jushi (易安居士 “Yi'an HOUSEHOLDER (1084–c. 1151) was a Chinese writer andpoet of the Song Dynasty, regarded by many as the premier woman poet in the Chinese language citation needed.

To the Tune of Like a Dream

Last night a sprinkling of rain,
a violent wind.
After a deep sleep, still not recovered
from the lingering effect of wine,
I inquired of the one rolling up the screen;
But the answer came: "The cherry-apple blossoms
are still the same."
"Oh, don't you know, don't you know?
The red must be getting thin,
while the green is becoming plump."

Friday, 18 September 2009


The Rainy Day by Rabindranath Tagore

Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe
of the forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry
is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.

Rabindranath Tagore , MAY 7 18651- AUGUST 7 1941,
BENGALI poet His name was originally written as Robindronath Thakur. He was also a philosopher and an artist. He also wrote many stories, novels and dramas. He also composed music and many songs. His writings greatly influenced Bengali culture during the late 19th century and early 20th century. In 1913, he won the Noble Prize for literature. He was the first Asian to win this prize. People also call him Gurudev.
Tagore was born in Calcutta). Tagore was a BENGALI BRAHMIN by birth. He wrote his first poem when he was only eight years old. Tagore's major works included Song Offerings, Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World); and many other literary and art works. style.
Tagore wrote JANA GANA MANA the national anthem of India He also wrote AMAR SHONAR BANGLA the national anthem of BANGLADESH

Wednesday, 9 September 2009

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Impersonation on Blogger

the Impersonation on BloggerAdd Image

If you are aware of someone you know being impersonated on us blog, CAT...MEOW or a TRASPIRARE IL POMERIGGI DI SOLE please LET US KNOW

WE FIND :"Atra Spirare il Pomriggiodis" and "Elaine Erig - Cats Meow" in blogs of friends,thank´s

Friday, 4 September 2009


Mata Hari was the stage name of Margaretha Geertruida "Grietje" Zelle (7 August 1876, Leeuwarden – 15 October 1917, Vincennes), a Dutch-Frisian exotic dancer and courtesan who was executed by firing squad for espionage during World War I


Thursday, 27 August 2009



Poets of Mongolia evokes the meaning of poetry in the daily life of ordinary people who are trying to cope with harsh reality in a rapidly changing world. Through poetry a miner praises nature, a heating technician evokes man's destiny, a blind singer expresses her wish to see, and an expatriate finds the strength to survive in a foreign country.

Inti Films' Mongolia Trilogy (City of the Steppes, 1994, State of Dogs, 1998 -third part-Inti Films -)Mongolian State Award Best Documentary 1999

Wednesday, 19 August 2009


... Born in the highland village of Boda, near Ambo , west of the Ethiopian capital, Addis Ababa 17 August 1936 died in Manhattan on 26 February 2006.

Prologue to African Conscience

Tamed to bend
Into the model chairs
Carpentered for it
By the friendly pharos of its time
The black conscience flutters
Yet is taken in.

it looks right
It looks left
It forgets to look into its own self:
The broken yoke threatens to return
Only, this time
In the luring shape
Of luxury and golden chains
That frees the body
And enslaves the mind.
Into its head
The old dragon sun
Now breathes hot civilization
And the wise brains
Of the strong sons of the tribes
With an even more strange suffocation.

Its new self awareness
(In spite of its tribal ills)
Wishes to patchits torn spirits together:
Its past and present masters
(With their army of ghosts
That remained to haunt the earth)
Hook its innermost soul
And tear it apart:
And the african conscience
Still moans molested
Still remains drifting uprooted.

A lover love-rejected
With a spirit dejected,
A monk God-forsaken
hose total Faith is shaken,
Are less lost than dreamer
Into whose peace a “ question “
Plunged like a knife
And woke him to life,
To search, to find his way
To dodge, to fight his way
NOT dream it away !

On the grave of my friend, I stood.
For blood and flesh, I stayed . . .
And with faith I prayed, and prayed;
For blood and flesh, he was robed
. . .And with doubt, I hoped, and I hoped.
On the grave of my friend, as I stayed;
… On my future, I brood .

I stood on the grave of a man.
A tomb-stone of a man, I burdened.
The grave of a man, I murdered:
And with hope, my future, I sketched,
When with prayer, my killer hand, I stretched.
On the tomb-stone, of the man, I murdered:
. . Urrahh!!! I won!
On my victim’s carcass, I climb.
While on his tomb, I tread …
My bloody fingers, I spread:
Thus to repent, to justify, I have tried …
While I hoped, and prayed, I have cried.
And I won, my daily wine, and bread!
… Is it a crime?

I did not know, oh sir, that I stood on your way,
It all happened in chance; argument is unfit,
If we fight, others will benefit,
And as this road is also where my future lay,
Destiny forces me to answer you with “ Nay “
Pray lose no temper: lest you commit
A risk to result in a regrettable wit,
For, if there be crime, guilty is just the day:

I am also in yours as you are in my shoes
So do let us shift sir, to either side
However painful it becomes, we should, though
We realize that it isn’t much to lose
That in spite of us the way is wide
And that after all, someday, both of us go.

Showers of anguish
Rain, do not exhaust
Ocean of revenge
Of the innermost
Voice of the betrayed
Comfort of the lost,

Tears torn of self
Blood of the heart.<

Tuesday, 11 August 2009


Edward de Vere, 17th earl of Oxford

[Who taught thee first to sigh?]

Who taught thee first to sigh, alas, my heart?
Who taught thy tongue the woeful words of plaint?
Who filled your eyes with tears of bitter smart?
Who gave thee grief, and made thy joys to faint?

Who first did paint with colors pale thy face?
Who first did break thy sleeps of quiet rest?
Above the rest in court who gave thee grace?
Who made thee strive, in honor to be best?

In constant truth to bide so firm and sure?
To scorn the world, regarding but thy friends?
With patient mind each passion to endure?
In one desire to settle to the end?

Love then thy choice, wherein such choice thou bind
As nought but death may ever change thy mind.

Were I a king

Were I a king I could command content ;
Were I obscure, unknown should be my cares;
And were I dead, no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears.
A doubtful choice, of three things one to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

Edward de Vere, 17th earl of Oxford, born April 12, 1550, Castle Hedingham, Essex, Eng.died June 24, 1604, Newington, Middlesex
English lyric poet and patron of an acting company, Oxford's Men, who became, in the 20th century, the strongest candidate proposed (next to William Shakespeare himself) for the authorship of Shakespeare's plays.
Succeeding to the earldom as a minor in 1562, Oxford lived for eight years as a royal ward under the care of William Cecil (later Lord Burghley) and in December 1571 married Burghley's daughter, Anne Cecil. Along the way he studied at Queens' College and St. John's College, Cambridge. By the early 1580s his financial position had become very straitened, perhaps chiefly through his lack of financial sense. His younger children were provided for by Burghley, with whom he remained friendly even after Anne's death (June 1588) and his own remarriage in 1591 or 1592. In 1586 Queen Elizabeth granted him an annuity of £1,000.
He was never appointed to any important office or command, though he was named on the commissions of some noted trials of peers and was said to have been made a privy councilor by James I. It has therefore been suggested that the annuity may have been granted for his services in maintaining a company of actors (from 1580) and that the obscurity of his later life is to be explained by his immersion in literary pursuits. He was indeed a notable patron of writers. He employed
John Lyly, the author of the novel Euphues, as his secretary for many years.
That Oxford might be the author of Shakespeare's plays was first advanced in a major way in “Shakespeare” Identified in Edward de Vere, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford (1920), a study by J. Thomas Looney. Looney argued that there was a biographical similarity between Oxford and both Bertram (in All's Well That Ends Well) and Hamlet and that Oxford's poems resembled Shakespeare's early work. Oxford's interest in the drama extended beyond noble patronage, for he himself wrote some plays, though there are no known examples extant. His 23 acknowledged poems were written in youth, and, because he was born in 1550, Looney proposed that they were the prelude to his mature work and that this began in 1593 with Venus and Adonis. This theory is supported by the coincidence that Oxford's poems apparently ceased just before Shakespeare's work began to appear. A further claim is that Oxford assumed a pseudonym in order to protect his family from the social stigma attached to the stage and also because extravagance had brought him into disrepute at court. A major difficulty in the Oxfordian theory, however, is his death date (1604), because, according to standard chronology, 14 of Shakespeare's plays, including many of the most important ones, were apparently written after that time. The debate, however, remained lively in the late 20th century.

Sunday, 9 August 2009


Nagasaki (August 9, 1945)Events: Dawn of the Atomic Era, 1945
The next break in the weather over Japan was due to appear just three days after the attack on Hiroshima, to be followed by at least five more days of prohibitive weather. The plutonium bomb, nicknamed "Fat Man," was rushed into readiness to take advantage of this window. No further orders were required for the attack. Truman's order of July 25th had authorized the dropping of additional bombs as soon as they were ready. At 3:47 a.m. on August 9, 1945, a B-29 named Bock's Car lifted off from Tinian and headed toward the primary target: Kokura Arsenal, a massive collection of war industries adjacent to the city of Kokura.
The aircraft commander, Major Charles W. Sweeney, ordered the arming of the bomb only ten minutes after take-off so that the aircraft could be pressurized and climb above the lightning and squalls that menaced the flight all the way to Japan.

Nagasaki was an industrial center and major port on the western coast of Kyushu. As had happened at Hiroshima, the "all-clear" from an early morning air raid alert had long been given by the time the B-29 had begun its bombing run. A small conventional raid on Nagasaki on August 1st had resulted in a partial evacuation of the city, especially of school children. There were still almost 200,000 people in the city below the bomb when it exploded. The hurriedly-targeted weapon ended up detonating almost exactly between two of the principal targets in the city, the Mitsubishi Steel and Arms Works to the south, and the Mitsubishi-Urakami Torpedo Works (right) to the north. Had the bomb exploded farther south the residential and commercial heart of the city would have suffered much greater damage.
The explosion affected a total area of approximately 43 square miles. About 8.5 of those square miles were water, and 33 more square miles were only partially settled. Although the destruction at Nagasaki has generally received less worldwide attention than that at Hiroshima, it was extensive nonetheless. Almost everything up to half a mile from ground zero was completely destroyed, including even the earthquake-hardened concrete structures that had sometimes survived at comparable distances at Hiroshima. According to a Nagasaki Prefectural report "men and animals died almost instantly" within 1 kilometer (0.62 miles) of the point of detonation. Almost all homes within a mile and a half were destroyed, and dry, combustible materials such as paper instantly burst in
to flames as far away as 10,000 feet from ground zero. Of the 52,000 homes in Nagasaki, 14,000 were destroyed and 5,400 more seriously damaged. Only 12 percent of the homes escaped unscathed.
. A U.S. Navy officer who visited the city in mid-September reported that, even over a month after the attack, "a smell of death and corruption pervades the place." As at Hiroshima, the psychological effects of the attack were undoubtedly considerable.
As with the estimates of deaths at Hiroshima, it will never be known for certain how many people died as a result of the atomic attack on Nagasaki. The best estimate is 40,000 people died initially, with 60,000 more injured.
By January 1946, the number of deaths probablyapproached 70,000, with perhaps ultimately twice
that number dead total within five years.For those areas of Nagasaki affected by theexplosion, the death rate was comparable to that at Hiroshima.

Saturday, 25 July 2009


Sylvia Plachy

Sylvia Plachy, a Hungarian-born photographer,
immigrated to the United States with her parents in 1958,
started photographing in 1964 and over the next forty years
by recording the visual character of the city along with
its diverse occupants managed the not insignificant
accomplishment of becoming essential to
the New York photography scene.
Sylvia Plachy's work is in the permanent collections of MOMA,
the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art,
the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Bibliotheque Nationale. She has been awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship and a CAPS Grant

Sylvia Plachy by the Berlin Wall photo by James Ridgeway


as a starting point for further explorations into the amazing world and work of female photographers of all nationalities,their contribution to the field of photography deserves greaterrecognition and we can learn so much from them and try to understand what emotions are inherent in the story you are telling and find ways to make them visual, something us draws to the subject, makes pick them out of a crowd.

Wednesday, 1 July 2009


Jóhann Hjálmarsson was born in Reykjavik on July 2, 1939. From 1956 to 1959 he studied printing at the Technical College of Reykjavik; and in 1959, and again in 1965, he studied Spanish at the University of Barcelona. From 1967 to 2006, Jóhann worked as critic of both literature and theatre for the newspaper Morgunblaðið. Since 1990, he has also supervised literary broadcastings for the National Radio. Through the years Jóhann has been active in committees of the literary community, including serving on the Nordic Council Minister´s Committee from 1981-1990, acting as its chairman from 1987-1989. Jóhann has written numerous poetry collections and his first book, Aungull í tímann, was published in 1956. His works have been translated into many languages and published in collections throughout the world. He has, in turn, translated poems and collections into Icelandic. Poems in Treasures of Icelandic Verse Two of Jóhann’s poems – Birta (Light) and On Landscape (Um Landslag) – were published in Treasures of Icelandic Verse, an anthology compiled by Árni Sigurjónsson. Translation Sigurður A. Magnússon.


Again light strikes
a bare landscape,
again evening falls,
night arrives
And you stand at the side of the smallest shadow
as before.
You don't feel anxiety,
are as quiet
as the stones, the withered grass:
this that was given you
of earth
of life.
....(rorem photo)

Saturday, 27 June 2009


Born in Montbéliard, 11 November 1952,
Jean-Michel Maulpoix has published poetry,
including A History of blue, the writer imagined,
Public Domain, and not on snow,published
in the Mercure de France. He also published critical studies on Henri Michaux, Jacques Réda and René Char,
as well as testing general poetic
(including poetry nevertheless poetry as lovepoetry and Du). Her writing, which constantly interact prose and poetry,
claiming volontiers a "critical lyricism.
Jean-Michel Maulpoix directs the quarterly journal of literature
and criticism New Series (ed. Field valley Seyssel 01420)
Alumnus of the École normale supérieure de Saint-Cloud,
modern literature, and author of a doctoral thesis on state
"notion of lyricism, he teaches modern poetry at the University
of Paris X-Nanterre where He also hosts a team of research
entitled "MonitoringoFcontemporary poetry -
------- photo Tony Elieh

"The song of the castaways
Poem extracted from « Dans l'interstice » (« Through the chinks… »
by Jean-Michel MAULPOIX, & Fata Morgana, publ., 1991
Translated by Catherine Wieder

We are the wrecked castaways of language
To and fro do we wander from one country to another, clinging on to the floated woods of our
Such are the remains of an old vessel crashed so long ago
But desire still plots whilst we ship adrift
And sculpt in those planks statuettes of sirens with blue hair
And go on singing with those very same lungs

Let us repeat the sea
Do not bring any stupid trial to the blue

The sea, clinging on to the sea
Shivers and slides on the sea
Its movements of a skirt,
its blows of the shoulders, its redundancies
And all this blue coming to us on the wide flats of the sea
We like the way the small craft passes and goes
Swaying from one wave to another, dancing its fluttering turmoil to meet the sea again
And its weird jingling sound
When music unfolds itself on the huge score of the sea

The sea mingles with the sea
Mixes its lakes and puddles
Its ideas of gulls and foams
Its dreams of seaweeds and cormorants
With its heavy blue chrysanthemums from the open sea
With clumps of forget-me-nots on the white walls of the islands
With the bruises of the horizon
With switched off light-houses
With the dreams of the unfathomable sky

The sea is a fallen blue sky
Long ago did the sky indeed lose its keys in the sea
Under which suns should we from now on lose ourselves ?
On which shoulder will we rest the fever of our wet head ?
Our dreams are birds' feet on the sand
Fragments of nails cut a few inches away from the sea
We burn on the beach huge heaps of corpses
Since such are the words with their bones and smokes

Heaps of thighbones and metacarpusses
A pyre of sweet-smelling blades of grass and crackling powders
A dry meadow would be kindled next to the sea
High flames headlong jumping among the brooms
And all of a sudden a woman's chest erected in the spluttering
Offered to that mad love
Throwing towards heaven the long moan
Of he who scorched his heart

Alone, does he walk towards her, on the narrow granite jetty
Embarking his perishable body towards nothing
She remains the huge lying shape, running towards him
Throwing towards him her flurries and petticoats

Lo ! here does he stand,
He the small man, standing up straight on the dyke with his pencil
Tightly pressed against her, but apart
Both so close and yet losing sight of each other
Pressing on to each other, their hearts badly anchored

The blue bathes a little that small body of a man
The blue catches him in its nets
A speck of flesh or chip of bashful love
A tuft of light between his palms
Stained with deep ink
Lips tightly closed by the wave
Muted, having nothing to reply to the open blue
Voiceless in the water's maze
Why can't we put out our roots in the sea
As drowned men and weeds do ?
We would easily carry on our shoulders

The never fading blue sky
Which however dreams of colours and hues
And the lukewarm wool of the foams
And the poisonous fruits of the open sea
In which no human lip did ever bite
Thus would we return to the infinite garden

We won't fill the sea with our tears
We'd rather support with our songs the efforts of the storms
Throwing their cries and leaches on to our heads
And when our watery eyes no longer see anything
We'll know better still what the sea is
The scales covering our hearts will have fallen
And our nacreous skin will at last be so white
That we would no longer fear the mad love of the sirens

Cheers to the skies of the open sea
So will we drink from chalices and ciboriums
Gluttunously will we drink the sea
No water will ever quench our thirst
We are thirsty of the salt
Our lips are greedy
In the blue sea, it's always Sunday
When gold fishes kneel

Since the days when the floodtide started carrying us
We started a liking for eternity
Water has gotten into our head
And crystal droplets in our blood
We hardly remember our fellow creatures
Whose gardens fade
And whose children grow
Our heart is so blue.