thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light,
what obscure clarity opens between your columns?
What ancient night does man touch with his senses?
Ah, loving is a voyage with water and with stars,
with drowning air and brusque storms of flour:
loving is a battle of lightning bolts,
and two bodies, overcome by one honey.
Kiss by kiss I travel across your small infinity,
your images, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and the genital fire transformed into delight
runs through the narrow trails of blood
until it plunges itself, like a nocturnal carnation,
until it is and is nothing more but a ray in the shadows.
(translated by Mark Eisner)