L'Amour du mensonge

Paraskevidekatriaphobia? Maybe not today. One month deep and perhaps a little wiser and more committed. The survey is out, my fingers are crossed. My mind is in a hundred different places, but not where it should be. I can see the passions bloom, but domesticity is a deadly force. Sushi over sex. Television before tenderness. But what's the alternative? Melodrama out the ears? No. I will keep things as they should be. I don't mind. He's not a trophy, just a vessel of warmth. Eh.

As the South comes closer I think to you, and how this could have been different. I am happy where I am.

The Love of Lies
When I see you pass, oh my lazy beloved,
To the song of the instruments that the ceiling shatters
Suspending your slow and harmonious walk,
And displaying the ennui of your penetrating gaze;

When I contemplate, in the gaslight that colors it,
Your pale brow, embellished by morbid appeal,
Where the evening torches ignite a dawn,
And your eyes appealing like those of a portrait,

I say to myself: How she is beautiful! And oddly fresh!
Massive memory, heavy and royal tower,
Crowns her, and her heart, bruised like a peach,
Is ripe, like her body, for the skillful lover.

Are you the autumn fruit with the sovereign flavor?
Are you a gloomy vase waiting for a few tears,
Perfume that makes one dream of distant oasises,
Soft pillow, or basket of flowers?

I know that there are eyes, of deepest melancholy,
That contain no precious secrets;
Beautiful boxes without jewels, medallions without relics,
Emptier, deeper than yourself, oh Heaven!

But does it not suffice that you are the semblance,
That delights a heart that runs from the truth?
What importance your stupidity or your indifference?
Mask or pretence, hail! I adore your beauty.


L'Amour du mensonge
Quand je te vois passer, ô ma chère indolente,
Au chant des instruments qui se brise au plafond
Suspendant ton allure harmonieuse et lente,
Et promenant l'ennui de ton regard profond;

Quand je contemple, aux feux du gaz qui le colore,
Ton front pâle, embelli par un morbide attrait,
Où les torches du soir allument une aurore,
Et tes yeux attirants comme ceux d'un portrait,

Je me dis: Qu'elle est belle! et bizarrement fraîche!
Le souvenir massif, royale et lourde tour,
La couronne, et son coeur, meurtri comme une pêche,
Est mûr, comme son corps, pour le savant amour.

Es-tu le fruit d'automne aux saveurs souveraines?
Es-tu vase funèbre attendant quelques pleurs,
Parfum qui fait rêver aux oasis lointaines,
Oreiller caressant, ou corbeille de fleurs?

Je sais qu'il est des yeux, des plus mélancoliques,
Qui ne recèlent point de secrets précieux;
Beaux écrins sans joyaux, médaillons sans reliques,
Plus vides, plus profonds que vous-mêmes, ô Cieux!

Mais ne suffit-il pas que tu sois l'apparence,
Pour réjouir un coeur qui fuit la vérité?
Qu'importe ta bêtise ou ton indifférence?
Masque ou décor, salut! J'adore ta beauté.
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You are a symbol of my youth and that can never pass away.