Little air



Any solitude

without a swan or quai

mirrors its disuse

in the gaze I abdicate


Far from that pride’s excess

too high to enfold

in which many a sky paints itself

with the twilight’s gold


But languorously flows beside

like white linen laid aside

such fleeting birds as dive

exultantly at my side


Into the wave made you

your exultation nude.




Unconquerably there must

as my hope hurls itself free

burst on high and be lost

in silence and in fury


A voice alien to the wood

or followed by no echo,

the bird one never could

hear again in this life below.


The wild musician,

the one that in doubt expires

as to whether from his breast or mine

has spurted the sob more dire


Torn apart may it complete

find rest on some path beneath!


Stephane Mallarmé (1842-1898), Poésies, Brussels, Deman.


Cover: Prada Foundation, detail (Haunted House), ph. D. Marrone

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