Joy is dead in the garden of your body
And the great lilies of the arms and the gladioli of the lips
And clusters of glory and gold,
On the moving staircase that was your body,
The cormorants of the time of October have let fall
feather with feather, their mourning, in the garden of your charms;
their mourning, on your torches and on your weapons.
Alas! So many dead and dead echoes so many voices!
In the distance, over there, on the horizon of red ashes,
A Christ raises to the sky his arms on the cross:
Miserere by the great evenings and the great woods!
Be gently buried,
In sweetness and melancholy
And in the death of the clear garden;
But that in the air
Persists to exalt the immense smell of your flesh.
Your eyes were darted, like fires of ardor, toward
the eternal stars;
And the flames of your eyes
Define eternity, by their splendor.
Your sweet hands, like
ruddy honey, were gathering, divinely, on the branches of the hour,
The fruits of youth at its awakening;
Your hair was a sun bush;
Your torso, with its round lights,
seemed a firmament of powerful and heavy stars;
And when your arms clenched against your heart, Love,
The rhythm of your breasts punctuated the love of the world.
On the gold of the seas, you stood up like a torch.
You gave yourself to all as the earth,
With its flowers, its lakes, its mountains, its revivals
And its tombs.
But today that have come
Other desires of the Unknown,
Be softly, Venus, the sad and the lost,
In the dead garden, among the woods and perfumes,
With, on your sleep, the sweetness suspended
Of a flower, by autumn and hurricane, twisted.