The rose’s brow

 

Never mind the window open wide in the long-vacationing room, the rose’s smell is tied to the breathing that once was there. We’re yet again sans anterior experience, just arrived, smitten. The rose! The field of its ways would air even the hardihood of death. No grate opposes. Longing resurges, ill of our evaporated brows.

 

One afoot on the rainy earth has nothing to fear from the thorn in hostile or finished places. But if he halts and recollects, bad luck to him! Hurt to the quick, he flies in ash, bowman caught again in beauty.

 

 

 

René Char