I am the one who said no more yesterday the blue verse and the profane song,
whose night a nightingale had been a skylight in the morning.
The owner went from my dream garden, full of roses and vague swans,
the owner of the doves, the owner of gondolas and liras in the lakes < and very eighteenth century and very old and very modern; bold, cosmopolitan
with strong Hugo and Verlaine ambiguous,
and a thirst for infinite illusions.
I knew of pain from my childhood, in my youth ... was it my youth?
its roses still leave me its fragrance-
a fragrance of melancholy ...
The unleashed pony threw my instinct, and in my youth rode pony without brake, and was drunk and with a dagger to his belt, and if it did not fall, it was because God is good. A beautiful statue was seen in my garden, and marble was judged to be living flesh, and a young soul dwelt in it, sentimental, sensitive, sensitive.
And shy to the world, so that locked in silence did not come, but when in the sweet spring
it was the hour of melody ...
Time of sunset and discreet kiss, the twilight hour and retirement, the time of madrigal and of rapture, of "I adore you," "woe!" and sigh.
And then it was in the dulzaina a game of mysterious crystalline ranges, a renewal of notes of the Greek Pan
and an unraveling of Latin music, with air so ardently so alive, that the statue was born suddenly on the virile thigh
goat legs and two satyr horns on the forehead.
As Galatea gongorina and I loved the marquise verleniana, and thus joined the divine passion
a sensual human hyperesthesia;
All craving, all ardor, pure sensation and natural vigor; and without falsity, and without comedy and without literature ...:
if there is a sincere soul, that is mine.
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As the sponge that saturates the salt in the juice of the sea, it was the sweet and tender heart of mine, filled with bitterness
the world, the flesh and hell. But, by the grace of God, in my conscience the Good knew how to choose the best part, and if there was a harsh gall in my existence, all the acrimony melted the Art.
My intellect was free to think low, and water castalia castalia the soul of mine, and my heart wandered and brought
from the sacred jungle harmony.
Oh, the sacred jungle! Oh, the deep emanation of the divine heart
the sacred jungle! Oh, the fruitful fountain whose virtue overcomes destiny!
Ideal forest that the real complicates,
there the body burns and lives and Psiquis flies;
while down the fornic satyr, the blue drunken slay Filomela.
Dreamy pearl and loving music in the dome in blossom of the green laurel,
Subtle libya hipsipila in the rose,
and faun's mouth the nipple bites. There the god goes in zeal after the female, and the reed of Bread rises from the mud, and the eternal Life his seeds sow, and the harmony of the great All proceeds. . The soul that enters there must go naked,
trembling with desire and holy fever,
about thistle and thorn sharp thorn:
Thus dreams, thus vibrates and thus sings. Life, light and truth, such a triple flame
produces the infinite inner flame,
Art as pure as Christ exclaims:
Ego sum lux et veritas et vita! / i>
And life is a mystery; the blind light
and the inaccessible truth astonishes;
the dreary perfection never surrenders, and the ideal secret sleeps in the shade.
That's why to be sincere is to be powerful, the naked one that is, the star shines,
water says the soul of the source
in the crystal voice that flows d ' she. So it was my intention to make the pure soul of mine, a star, a sound source, with the horror of literature
and crazy of twilight and dawn.
A stone passed that threw a sling, and an arrow passed that sharpened a violent.
The sling stone went to the wave, and the arrow of hatred went to the wind.
The virtue is to be calm and strong,
with the inner fire everything burns, and triumphs of resentment and death, and towards Bethlehem ... the caravan pass!