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Tired of bitter rest

Tired of bitter rest where my laziness offends

A glory for which I once fled the adorable

Childhood of rosewood under the natural

Blue, and seven times more tired of a harsh pact

To dig by evening a new pit

In the avaricious and cold ground of my brain,

Gravedigger without pity for infertility,

-What shall I say to this Dawn, O Dreams, visited

By the roses, when for fear of its pallid roses,

The vast cemetery unites the empty holes? -

I want to abandon the voracious Art of a cruel

Country, and, smiling at old reproaches

Which my friends make to me, the past, the genius,

And my lamp that however knows my agony

Imitating the Chinese with a clear and fine heart

To whom pure ecstasy is to paint the end

On his cups of snow to the delighted moon

From a bizarre flower that perfumes his transparent

Life, the flower which he smelled, child,

Being grafted onto the blue filigree of a soul.

And death as the only dream of a wise man,

Serenely, I am going to choose a young landscape

That I would paint again on a cup, distracted,

A line of thin and pale blue would be

A lake, amid the sky of bare china,

A clear crescent lost in a white cloud

Dips its calm horn in the icy waters

Not far from three big emerald eyelashes, the reeds