noon

Noon, king of summers, spread over the plain,
falls in silver sheets from the heights of the blue sky.
Everything is quiet. Breathlessly the air flames and burns;
earth drowses in its fiery dress.

The expanse is vast, the fields have no shade,
and the spring where the flocks used to drink is dried up;
the distant forest, whose edge is dark,
motionlessly slumbers over there in a heavy sleep.

Only the great ripe cornfields, like a golden sea,
roll far away disdaining sleep;
as peaceful children of the sacred earth,
fearlessly they drain the sun’s cup.

Sometimes, like a sigh from their burning soul,
from the bosom of the heavy ears, murmuring among themselves,
a majestically slow undulation awakens and
goes to die on the dusty horizon.

Not far away some white oxen lying in the grass
dribble slowly on their heavy dewlaps
and follow with their proud, languid eyes
the inner dream they never finish.

Man, if towards noon you passed into the blazing fields
with your heart full of joy or bitterness,
flee! Nature is empty and the sun devours:
nothing is living here, nothing is sad or joyful.

But if, disillusioned with tears or laughter,
parched for forgetfulness of this busy world,
no longer knowing how to pardon or to curse,
you wish to taste a last desolate pleasure,

Come! The sun speaks to you in sublime words;
be endlessly absorbed in its relentless flame;
and return with slow steps towards the abject cities,
your heart seven times bathed in the divine void.

Charles Marie René Leconte de Lisle

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left

In morning sunlight,
Glowing along the mountains,
The cherry blossoms
I thought they might be snow that
Had stubbornly refused to melt.

Fujiwara  Ariie

emperor

In the tranquil sun of spring
A lark soars singing;
Sad is my burdened heart,
Thoughtful and alone…

Yakamochi

poem

The springtime sun
sets, treading
on a mountain pheasant’s tail.

Yosa Buson

horizonte

A sun without rays
spills on green mist.

The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.

In my spent soul
the sound of a small
silver drum.

Federico Garcia Lorca

the sun

The sun grows steadily from its watered root
by reason of the ambrosia poured from her moon-bowl by Night
as by a gardener girl desiring a new garden,
in fact, the world.
As it grows from out its trench,
the Eastern Mountain’s ring of peaks,
red as fresh coral, may it bring you joy,
this first sprout of the tree of day.

Mayura

the death of guillaume apollinaire

 

we know nothing
we knew nothing of grief

the bitter season of cold

digs long furrows in our muscles

he would have preferred the joy of victory

wise under calm sorrows    caged
unable to do anything at all

if snow fell upward

if the sun rose to meet us during the night

to warm us

and trees hung with their crown upside down

—unique teardrop—

if birds were here with us to contemplate themselves

in the tranquil lake above our heads

WE COULD UNDERSTAND

death would be a beautiful long voyage

and an unlimited vacation from the flesh of structures and of bones.

Tristan Tzara