The flesh is sad, Alas! and Ive read all the books.
Lets go! Far off. Lets go! I sense
That the birds, intoxicated, fly
Deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing not even old gardens mirrored by eyes
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!
And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,
Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands...
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors chant!
Sea Breeze
written byStéphane Mallarme
© Stéphane Mallarme