BLACK CAT POEMS
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translated by: Jethro Bithell
SINCE there are no words that can hold the brine
On this sad evening in my soul distilling,
Let a pure fiddle-bow above it thrilling
Its bitterness of lonely grief refine.
! Clear goblet full of
The only water is for the thirst's stilling;
The soul to be dissolved in thee is willing,
Even as in kisses are desires that pine.
O sob of gold!... O god-like magic!... Fresh
Winds of a wing run o'er the feverous flesh,
And we are by an angel's hand caressed....
Harmony, thou a helpful virgin art,
Cradling like a poor child on thy breast
Our infinite heart, our miserable heart.
poems by Albert Samain