Translated by Leigh Fetter and Andrew Firestone (2012)
It's a frightful terror, to remain
with yourself face to face;
you're mirrored in the world-abyss,
an endless spiral staircase.
The quiet weeps. The blue above
is desert, bare and hot;
you flee to hubbub, to streetlights,
towards the steaming pot.
You water down the bitterness
add onions, something sweet.
You cuddle up to every dog,
in dirt you warm your feet.
As winter comes you stockpile Love,
with the coal, oil and wood –
"I lie to you and you to me
this way we both feel good!"
* * *
I'm drawn to him whose cradle once
was rocked by a gale
who grew up vagabond and free,
at odds with God and Devil
who resists sinking like a fly
in sticky happiness
or being bound by friendship's cords
like a horse in harness.
Who locks away his sufferings
like pearls in a drawer
and shares or sows each bit of joy
declining thanks at all.
Hands full of strength, soul full of light
and a face like a stone...
Calmly to gaze upon himself
in the abyss, can he alone.
Paris, 1927
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