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.
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