The phantom of the house on the mountain

Between us
Sorrow and poems
And a planet of delirium
I pull it backwards a little
So that, elated, you cross
Towards your house on the mountain . . .

Between us
Flames
And grass
And a galaxy of women !
Each one
An entire forest !

From the height of her aching sign (Aries),
Two stars before evening-time,
Sylvia will descend
With “her black Spanish veil”,
Escorted by two boys and guards of the Babylonian temple,
Holding her dewy heart toward you,

She will suddenly cross like the magnificent north star . . .
And her luminous hand will not ring the ‘door-bell’
As is your habit in handling her plain fear
At the very small hours,
Not because
No one there deserves to stand up to the visitor’s condition,
But for fear that your kindred blood
Fall prey to the famished wolves’ appetite !

Tonight
The rose of Buckingham died
Or the flower of metal
What difference ?
As she kept reiterating in your final dream . . .
She went out
Even before
The prince noticed her vacant portrait
On the wall !

The poet alone understands the significance of pain
When, through his fingers, silence spreads out against the evening !

THE PHANTOM OF THE HOUSE ON THE MOUNTAIN