Song in the Garden of Snow
My incandescent heart, a fountain of birds,
And memories the size of Saturn’s archipelago—
A paradise committee of honey and nectar,
A shining candle glowing violet.
The sky, blue or red,
In a vessel of misfortune,
Courage radiates fortune on the far shore—
Charming journeys deep within the rose.
A spirit rooted in the midst of the unknown,
Searching for the old book in abandoned stations,
Climbing the slopes of Dinant’s mountains,
Expressing love for the beautiful dream,
Like a saint inspecting the giant cathedral
On cold, silent nights.
In villages and valleys of bees and graceful butterflies,
Drinking the coffee of sad alienation flashing before my eyes—
A mirror reflecting birds in a sky scarred by lightning,
Pale jasmine planted in a courtyard beside the rain,
Chestnut trees in autumn, shedding tear-covered leaves
Beneath the glowing lights of Christmas holidays.
A symphony arising from my ribs—
The title of the earliest centuries of poets,
Murmurs of secrets staggering like the rhythm of drums,
The provincial flavors patterned on Ardennes’ white snow,
The chromatic cold mountains of Wallonia,
And the lush green plains of Limburg.
From which planet of the alphabet were you born?
And in which year did all these rivers form?
Do they branch from every love story?
An alphabet of infinite love,
A migration crawling on its knees without night or day
Toward a horizon of illusion.
