Petite Suite Sans Fil

I

Hilversum, Kalundborg, Brno, the loud world over,

Monday to Sunday, the idiot radio

Spits crabs on Mozart, dedicates to you

Its endless O be still insulting brew

The Thunderer in love with the queen of cows

Deserted Io by the waterside

Who hears by radio at eventide

These lousy cracklings from her hidden spouse

Like her-for such is War-hearing the Voice

Men in their fond stupidity caress

Toulouse, PIT, Daventry, Bucharest

Their hope the good old hope of former days

Interrogating ether, which replies

That Carter's Little Liver Pills are best.

u

Speak to me of love waves little waves

The heart in shadow still has its song and its cry

Ah, speak to me of love. These are the days

Of doubt and dread where one is alone in writing

Ah, speak to me of love Letters How far it is

From Paris to this outpost in the desert.

You will speak of love. The novel and the waltz

Will mock at space and absence. A formal dance

With neither of us present is beginning

The violins will make the poets jealous

Night and the sky unfold to the two-cent songs.

Do not speak of love I hear the beating heart

Conceal the meaningless confusing themes

Speak no more of love What is she doing there

So near, so far, O Time of martyrdom,

Speak no more of love Fire hums on the hearth

And the flames set the fragrance of kisses there

But speak of love again and let love rhyme

With old familiar words or nothing at all

Speak of love for all the rest is crime

And men gone mad frighten the birds among

The bare black boughs that pallid winter leaves

Where the nests resemble pleasures stolen away

To speak of love is to speak of her and she

Is all the music and the forbidden garden

Where Renaud fell in love with Armide and

Said nothing about his love O foolish knight

Just as we used to be in days before

We warred upon the prince of infidels

We will speak of love as long as day returns

And spring comes back and the sparrows make their song

I will speak of love in bed with a pillow of dreams

Where the two of us will be like the gold of a ring

And you will tell me Put the paper down.

Louis Aragon

Translated by Rolfe Humphries