(Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI)
I often have this dream, strange and penetrating
of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me,
and who’s never, each time, the same exactly,
nor exactly different, she knows me, she’s loving.
Oh she knows me, and my heart, growing
clear for her alone, is no longer a problem,
for her alone, she alone understands, then,
how to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.
Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.
Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,
as those of the loved that life has exiled.
Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,
and in her voice, distant, serious, mild,
the tone of dear voices, of those who have died.
By Paul Verlaine