Who is Sylvia?
She whom I met last Saturday night,
The party and the hangover.
What is she?
Full of strange energy
Like the pear I ate with the pink cheek.
Who am I when I am with you, Sylvia?
In the mirror of your laughter
I hardly recognize myself.
I see myself as I really am, handsome, brave, and true.
Skepticism shrinks me,
But you set me growing like a field of daisies:
You lie down in me and roll around: it tickles.
Who is Sylvia?
She gives me the courage to ask.
I step out of my clothes when I think of her.
Christmas balls drop from the tree into the snow
With a sizzle.
Is she Edwige Feuillere?
Yes she is.
Beautiful women are never so lucky
As when a poet appreciates them:
He creates her and she saves the life
That he is always about to throw away.
She takes his hand and they go off
Into the difficult valley of desire.
Who is Sylvia?
She is my mission.
I fly to where she keeps her legendary cities of the jungle.
Bathe my feet, priest, robe me in red
And lead me to the river where the black mud of centuries flows:
We are carried off to sea to build a new continent.
Three horns announce midnight and the world is awash:
Who is Sylvia?
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylviana,
She is the wave.
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