How could one by now build his life King Baudelaire?
My feverish memory at the feast,
barefooted facing the house at the gates of the garden, I want to question the abysse’s vertigo.
A parted world
If the cloudy asters shadowless flourish for the wild ducks,
then, let us meet tomorrow, when it is part-shade
round about a coolish mound of sand to sketch in free outline
the botanical festival of speckled corollas, black blue sand in long blooming, first-born amongst the four boughs of my sorrow.
Leave out your rags, children of life!
One should not take the arm of the tales arborescent like journeys engraved in the Land of the Mont-Blanc.
From which stories does the wind protect you?
And, through the april rain – vivid crystal that bloody avalanche – what does the nature simply tell me to enlighten?
Volunteers with their classical fabric, spiders silent with their thread
are at the end of their wisdom, angels of the silk,
while maybe once more the perfume of the roaming tsars, but still nobles
like clouds and wind, will come to rescue the bees, home, at the utter rose’s carrousel.
Will you partake in the wind to follow the wedding of an eternal metaphor with a golden kite-surfer, great traveller, over there in the underwater future, besieged artist of the Big Blues ?
To this beginning feast, Red-perfumed,
living in exile.
POEM BY EVA KLOTGEN
TRANSLATION BY Thomas & Jürgen Klötgen