Princess!  Being (as you are) jealous of the fate of Hebe

Who dawned over this cup in the kiss of your lips

I wear out my fires but discreetly I have only the rank of abbot

And I shall not even be shown naked on Sevres. 

As I am not your bearded lapdog

Neither the bullet nor the crimson, nor the precious games

And what about me? I know your closed downcast glance

Blonde whose divine hairdressers are goldsmiths!

Name us. . .you of whom so many raspberry laughs

Turn us into a herd of tamed lambs

To all grazing the wishes and bleating in the frenzies 

Name us. . so that the winged Love of a fan

Combs me there, a flute in my fingers, putting this fold to sleep

Princess, name us a shepherd of your smiles 

07/27/08