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The poet's house
Nothing will be sweeter in his eyes than the face
From the dear house leaning against space,
Nothing will be sweeter to his senses than the noise
Wind, which whistles and flees under the old doors.

O abode I want to build you immortal

Your windows will be pieces of light,
Your mirrors will mirror the immense and pure sky,
Your roofs will be in bloom, your walls will be azure,
Your door will open to infinite joy,
And, all, you will be a single harmony
Under the wonderful and perfumed fingers of the winds!
So those who are dead will still be alive

The Poet’s House

Nothing, in taste nor sight will ever compare
To his beloved house at which he stares
Nothing as sweet will move his senses more
Than the wind whistling away through the old doors

My dwelling! It’s immortality I build you with

Your windows will shine like fragments of light
Reflecting the endless and virgin sky, smooth mirrors
Yours walls colored in blue, your roof dressed in flowers
It is joy that your door will open onto
It is full, it is harmony, for it is you
Skilfully the wind will sprinkle wonders and scents!
Through its invisible hand, the dead resuscitates


Copyright © – Véronique Ripert – Tous Droits Réservés –
Webmaster – Nelly Johnson – Site créé le 4 janvier 2007