The Water Lily

The air is misty. The reeds, rusty as old bones,

ring the black pond, sleeping in the silence.

The still water shines in vague drowsiness,

where birds glide through an upside-down sky.

Far from the sticky shores and the reeds,

alone, rocked in its proud and supple nonchalance,

a water lily, all swimming splendor, rocks,

stark white on the still black waters.

Thus perhaps you will open up, some autumn evening,

my highest love, hope of a listless heart.

Cold, sad flower, blooming in the lake of my cares,

and the chaste perfume of your pale corollas

will rise into the measureless calm of the nights,

with the last dying cry of my pain!