Nothing belongs to us, but we belong to everything.
In my house lives a tree. It is the mother of my mother and of her mother before. I slipped it a sip of water. It spoke to me of your words, of two-faced Janus, master of gates.
Are your eyes fixed on the horizon? I flinch; daring to admit I cannot bear the sun's sideways winter glare.
Has an anthem blossomed in my blood, or is it an echo of an irrepressible lament: that, having once tasted the fountain of your verse, the damage is irreparable?
A body is a red scarf recently washed, draped on the balcony--but the soul, a rogue wind, seizes the body in its teeth, thrashes it about. Between the two of them, someone dreamed of us together.
Green. The one in my wild mother's branches is granting droplets of green, returning me to my raw and tender mind. If there is left any holy space on this wounded earth to grant you refuge, let it be so.
Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...
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There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...