Jacques Roubaud



Sonnet 34
Tomb

Farewell: immodest death
Will rejoice inside us,
We his hovel, we his sty
Far from our fountains at Tivoli

The stars of the heavenly cake
Will scatter, lingering above the hills
With us underneath,
Prevented from everything.

We will become mud,
With roots sliding over us,
Over our hearts, such docile hearts

Then time, with nary a wrinkle,
Will balance on the peaks
Without us, its waxen suns

 

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