I’m kissing you now — acrossThe gap of a thousand years.

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

After a night of insomnia the body gets weaker,Becomes dear but no one’s — not even your own.

I’ll rise up as a poem…

Where does such tenderness come fromAnd what do I do with it, you, sly,Adolescent, vagabond singer,Whose lashes couldn’t be longer?

Where does such tenderness come from?These curls that I stroke with my handAren't the first that I've stroked, and IKnew lips that were darker than yours.

Chaque chose doit resplendir à son heure, et cette heure est celle où des yeux véritables la regardent.