For Minor Beauty

THREE POEMS

FOR MINOR BEAUTY

The tears of this season

Hang on bare twigs.

Only a little grass is still green

In lonely parks.

Il pleut doucement dans mon coeur... .

Thus I preserve minor beauty,

Feasting on melancholy

And my mad dreams.

Bitter nights ...

1 fold newspapers

Under my coat,

No shield against winter,

Against a moving world.

Paris in the spring...

The times have deprived us of Paris.

They fired on the mob there,

The memory still lingers.

Where shall I find comfort?

Hoarding Cézanne's apples?

Too many apples

Sold on street corners.

Here at the window,

The twilight is inside the room.

Who is it who passes,

Singing the praises of the impersonal,

Seeming to have found water

In the rock, in the wasteland?

They do not even see

The tears on the bare twigs.

Il pleut doucement dans mon coeur....