Original Title: "Brise Marine"
Text: Stéphane Mallarmé
The flesh is sad, alas! and I have read all the books.
To flee! Over there, to flee! I feel that some birds are drunk
of being among the unknown foam and the skies!
Nothing, nor the old gardens reflected by the eyes
Will hold that heart that is getting drenched in the sea
Oh nights! Nor the deserted brightness of my lamp
On the empty paper that whiteness defends
And nor the young woman breast-feeding her child.
I will leave! Steamer swinging your masts,
Set sails for an exotic nature!
A boredom, sorry for the cruel hopes,
Still believes into the supreme farewell of the handkerchiefs!
And, maybe, the masts, inviting the thunderstorms
Are of those that a wind tilts over the wreckings
Lost, without mast, without mast, nor fertile islets...
But, O my heart, hear the songs of the sailors