Villon
III
Under the olive trees
walking alone
on the green terraces
very seldom
over the sea seldom
where it ravelled and spun
blue tapestries white and green
gravecloths of men
Romans and modern men
and the men of the sea
who have neither nation nor time
on the mountains seldom
the white mountains beyond
or the brown mountains between
and their drifting echoes
in the clouds and over the sea
in shrines on their ridges
the goddess of the country
silverplated in silk and embroidery
with offerings of pictures
little ships and arms
below me the ports
with naked breasts
shipless spoiled sacked
because of the beauty of Helen
precision clarifying vagueness;
boundary to a wilderness
of detail; chisel voice
smoothing the flanks of noise;
catalytic making whisper and whisper
run together like two drops of quicksilver;
factor that resolves
unnoted harmonies;
name of the nameless;
stuff that clings
to frigid limbs
more marble hard
than girls imagined by Mantegna ...
The sea has no renewal, no forgetting,
no variety of death,
is silent with the silence of a single note.
How can I sing with my love in my bosom?
Unclean, immature and unseasonable salmon.