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