THE WHITE MOON La Lune blanche
The white moon
Gleams in the wood;
From every branch
There comes a voice
Beneath the bower . . .
O my love.
The pond reflects.
Shimmering mirror.
The silhouette
Of the dim willow
Where the wind laments . . .
Let us dream, it is the hour.
Vast and tender
An appeasement
Seems to lower
From the firmament
Star-bedecked . . .
Exquisite hour. translated by KATE FLORES
Stumbling through The White Moon