À une Malabaraise

Lack of sleep has prevented me from participating in life as it is meant to be experienced. I am tired all the time. The LSATs are on Saturday and all I want to do is watch movies with cute boys and nap all day. I don't care. Seasonal affective disorder is getting to me. I have decided that while I am angsty pretty much all the time this is a new sort. This is not self-imposed. Mostly I am just cold all the fucking time and that puts me in a permanent bad mood. I also do not like being a punching bag for every stupid little drama that waltzes into a certain special someone's life.

I need a warm atmosphere. And here's one in theory...

To a Woman of Malabar
Your feet are as slender as your hands, and your hips
Are broad and make the prettiest white woman envious;
To the thoughtful artist your body is soft and dear;
Your great velvet eyes are darker than your flesh.
In the country warm and blue where God has given rise to you,
Your task is to light the pipe of your master,
To fill the flasks with cold water and perfumes,
To chase the prowling mosquitoes far from his bed,
And, as soon as morning makes the plane trees sing,

To buy at the bazaar pineapples and bananas,
All day, wherever you want, you lead your naked feet,
And lowly you hum old unknown tunes;
And when evening descends in a mantel of scarlet,
You lay your body sweetly on a mat,
Where your flowing dreams are full of hummingbirds,
And always, like you, gracious and flourishing.

Why, happy child, do you wish to see our France?
This overpopulated country that suffering knocks down,
And, entrusting your life to the strong arms of the sea,
Make great farewells to your dear tamarinds?
You, half-dressed in fragile muslins,
Shivering there under the snow and the hail,
Like you would mourn your sweet and total pleasures
If, with the brutal corset imprisoning your sides
You had to gather your supper in our sludge
And sell the perfume of your strange charms,
Thoughtful eye, following, in our dirty fog,
The scattered phantoms of the coconut trees!

À une Malabaraise
Tes pieds sont aussi fins que tes mains, et ta hanche
Est large à faire envie à la plus belle blanche;
À l'artiste pensif ton corps est doux et cher;
Tes grands yeux de velours sont plus noirs que ta chair.
Aux pays chauds et bleus où ton Dieu t'a fait naître,
Ta tâche est d'allumer la pipe de ton maître,
De pourvoir les flacons d'eaux fraîches et d'odeurs,
De chasser loin du lit les moustiques rôdeurs,
Et, dès que le matin fait chanter les platanes,

D'acheter au bazar ananas et bananes.
Tout le jour, où tu veux, tu mènes tes pieds nus,
Et fredonnes tout bas de vieux airs inconnus;
Et quand descend le soir au manteau d'écarlate,
Tu poses doucement ton corps sur une natte,
Où tes rêves flottants sont pleins de colibris,
Et toujours, comme toi, gracieux et fleuris.

Pourquoi, l'heureuse enfant, veux-tu voir notre France,
Ce pays trop peuplé que fauche la souffrance,
Et, confiant ta vie aux bras forts des marins,
Faire de grands adieux à tes chers tamarins?
Toi, vêtue à moitié de mousselines frêles,
Frissonnante là-bas sous la neige et les grêles,
Comme tu pleurerais tes loisirs doux et francs
Si, le corset brutal emprisonnant tes flancs
Il te fallait glaner ton souper dans nos fanges
Et vendre le parfum de tes charmes étranges,
Oeil pensif, et suivant, dans nos sales brouillards,
Des cocotiers absents les fantômes épars!
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Almost done with the Spleen et Ideal section. We've come a long way, baby.