The Saint
This poem is one of my mock translations. I "read" a poem in French (right, I can't read or speak French) and translated it.
In the fading evening
The Saint is sitting by the door.
This violent enticement:
the garden filled with flutes and mandolins.
But The Saint, pale and trembling,
lives with a depleted view.
The magnificent rustling
in the garden says: It is time to comply.
At his center there is almost rage.
A pair of angels, frantic on their harps,
form above the son of soil.
They pour a delicate language.
It falls down on him; it falls past him;
he will never live in the balance.
He will walk between all instruments,
a silent musician.

love this!!