Wednesday, February 2, 2011

A toast

Nothing, froth, blank verse
That no designer will cut,
So far drowns a troupe
Of Sirens now on the path.

We sail, oh my diverse
friends, I’m already astern
Before you cut that pompous
flood of wrath and winters.

Sweetly drunken I pledge
Without fearing the pitching
Barely standing to toast.

Soiltude, reef, star
It’s unimportant what earned
The blank concern of our canvas.

by Stéphane Mallarmé
translated by pdjones.