La Danse Interminable
Et vous, les loups maigres ~ Romances sans paroles, Verlaine
The moon is closed inside a copper shell,
A casing of your manufacture, lad.
Although my destiny’s a minor hell
Compared to others’ sufferings, it’s sad
Enough for me. The landscape of our love
Is like a plain of burning sand and stain,
Yet beautiful beneath that moon above
And in a sense beyond its meaning. Pain
Is waxing now, but when it wanes, the sphere
Inside the metal shape may really rise,
A moonrise that will more than just appear
To bribe theophany from sapphire eyes.
I have become a crow of broken wind
Now writing desert lines wolves can’t rescind.