The hundredth Rose,
Of Love, frozen with cold,
Suddenly flared up.
Its perfume spoke to me for a long time. It was, however, a single moment. Its memory became my torment and my joy.
La centième Rose,
D’Amour, transi de froid,
S’embrasa soudain.
Son parfum me parla longtemps. Ce fut, pourtant, un seul instant. Son souvenir devint mon tourment et ma joie.
Love is a poetry,
Words are its essence,
Flower, its joy.
When the Rose spoke, it wanted to know everything, Then the rose sweated and each dew became a name.They were endless streams. In the morning, The Rose laughed : I’m not alone. I’m not alone.
****
L’Amour est poésie
Les mots, son essence
La fleur, sa joie.
Quand la Rose parla, elle voulut connaître chaque chose, alors, la Rose transpira et chaque rosée devint un nom.
C’était des ruisseaux sans fin. Au matin, la Rose se mit à rire : Je ne suis pas seule. Je ne suis pas seule.
Art et Semence 