| SUPPLICATION | APPEAL |
| Charles Cros | trans. Peter Dean |
|
Tes yeux, impassibles sondeurs D’une mer polaire idéale, S’éclairent parfois des splendeurs Du rire, aurore boréale. Ta chevelure, en ces odeurs Fines et chaudes qu’elle exhale, Faire rêver aux tigres rodeurs D’une clairière tropicale. Ton âme a ces aspects divers: Froideur sereine des hivers, Douceur trompeuse de la fauve. Glacé de froid, ou déchiré À belles dents, moi, je mourrai À moins que ton coeur ne me sauve. |
Your eyes, impenetrably deep as an incomparable arctic sea, uncloud sometimes and, splendid, leap to life with smiles, with lightning’s agency. Your tumbling locks, the scents they keep - so subtle and heavy as they disperse - make one imagine tigers creep out of some tropic universe. You’re made up of such diverse parts: there’s winter’s icy serenity for starts, right through to gypsy’s fickle charm. Whether I’m frozen stiff or torn to bits in mouthfuls, surely with me it’s curtains unless your heart bring balm. |
Trans. copyright © Peter Dean 2003