The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, January 13, 2014

Clair De Lune

 Your soul is a chosen landscape
 charmed by masquers and revellers
 playing the lute and dancing and almost
 sad beneath their fanciful disguises!
 
 Even while singing, in a minor key,
 of victorious love and fortunate living
 they do not seem to believe in their happiness,
 and their song mingles with the moonlight,
 
 the calm moonlight, sad and beautiful,
 which sets the birds in the trees dreaming,
 and makes the fountains sob with ecstasy,
 the tall slender fountains among the marble statues!
 
--Paul Verlaine
translated by Peter Low 

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