Anemones and columbines
Are growing in the garden again
Where sorrow sleeps between the lines
Of true love and disdain.
There our shadows circle back,
No longer dispersed by night,
Until the sun that makes them black
Again withdraws his light.
And then the gods of living water
Let down their hair in a wave
And you are left alone to hunger
For the beautiful shadows you crave.
Translated from French by Paul Weinfield, © 2015