PAUL VALÉRYStopped at a cistern with a pumping heart
between the vacuum and the creative act
whispering to my preliminary tact,
I await the echo of an interior force,
that bitter, dark and sonorous water-source
ringing in depths beyond the reach of art.
Caged though you seem behind a mesh of branches,
great gulf, consumer of these meagre fences,
a blinding secret on the lids, reveal
what body draws me to its indolences,
what face invites me to this bony soil.
A faint spark ponders these inheritances.
Composed of sombre trees, of light and stone,
an earthly splinter held up to the sun,
sacred, enclosed in immaterial fire,
I like this place with its dark poplar flames,
the marble glimmering in the shadows here
where a faithful sea snores on the table-tombs.
And if, sole shepherd, with a pastoral eye
I gaze too long on these mysterious flocks,
on these white souls, each in its tranquil box,
may the sea’s growl dispel the idolatrous things,
frightening o√ the prudent doves, the coy
illusions and the angels’ curious wings.
The future, here already, scarcely moves.
A quick insect scratches the dry leaves;
everything is exhausted, scorched by the air
into I don’t know what rigorous form.
Dazed with diversity, the enormous swarm
of life is bitter-sweet and the mind clear.
The hidden dead lie easy in this soil
which holds them tight and seasons their mystique;
high up the southern noon, completely still,
reflects upon itself where none may look.
Absolute monarch, firmament of blue,
I am the secret di√erence now in you.