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.