By Antoine Valot
Date: 15 February 2001
The poet's riddles
The poet’s riddles are dreams, diffuse
And light as the southerly breeze.
They need no reason or excuse,
They know no boundaries.
Were we poets, we would compare
Our lives to warm autumn evenings;
To summer days, our love affair;
Our bodies, to classical paintings.
The poet’s riddles are dreams, obtuse,
Hiding under rhythm and rhyme.
They speak of truth and thus, seduce,
And paint a world pure and sublime.
My love, I offer no such lies to you,
I have no heart for disillusion.
I speak of life, pain makes it true,
Just as our weakness drives our fusion.
If poet’s riddles are dreams, my muse,
May I always awake forgetful!
Life or beauty? When I choose,
May I always to truth be faithful!
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