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Late At Night
The moon on this July night,
Look!, shivers with fever among the poplars.
The wafted scent of cyclamen
Whimpers on your lips,
The wood, the path, the grass, even the distant streets
Are troubled by a deep sadness
And breathe out a faint white mist like a long sigh.
A young couple walk side by side
Holding hands as they tramp over the black mud,
Invisible devils drinking saké
And the reverberations of the last train thundering into the hills
Seem to jeer at the fate of man.
Quietly your soul begins to spasm,
Your sash of Indian cotton becomes moist with sweat,
Like a Parsi you will yourself to suffer in silence.
Oh my heart, wake up!
Your heart too, wake up!
What's happening to us?
It seems so inexorable, excruciating,
We want to escape and yet
It seems so sweet, hard to leave, unbearable...
If only my heart
Could rise from its sickbed,
Break free from this hashish-like trance!
But everything I see is madly confused,
Even the moon on this July night,
Look!, shivers with fever among the poplars.
It's like an interminable disease!
My heart lies on the grass in a hot-house
Tortured by beautiful poisonous insects,
Oh my heart
Who can you cry out to?
Now that the midnight is in the thrall of silence.
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