De tes hanches à tes piedsje veux f

De tes hanches à tes pieds
je veux faire un long voyage

Moi, plus petit qu’un insecte

Je vais parmi ces collines,
elles sont couleur d’avoine
avec des traces légères
que je suis seul à connaître,
des centimêtres roussis,
de blafardes perspectives.

Là se dresse une montagne.
Jamais je n’en sortirai.
Ô quelle mousse géante!
Et un cratère, une rose
de feu mouillé de rosée!

par tes jambes je descends
en filant en spirale
ou dormant dans le voyage
et j’arrive à tes genoux,
à leur ronde dureté
pareille aux âpres sommets
d’un continent de clarté.

Puis je glisse vers tes pieds
et vers les huits ouvertures
de tes doigts, fuseaux pointus,
tes doigts lents, péninsulaires,
et je tombe de leur haut
dans le vide du drap blanc
où je cherche,insecte aveugle
et affamé ton contour
de brûlante poterie !

Résultats (Anglais) 1:

From your hips to your feetI want to make a long journey Me, smaller than an insect I'll among these hills,they are color of oatswith light tracesI am only to know,centimeters singed,blafardes prospects. There stands a mountain.Never I don't to get out.O what giant foam!And a crater, a rosefire wet of dew! by your legs I get downby spinning spiralor sleeping beauty in the journeyand I arrive at your knees,their hardness roundreciprocate after summitsa continent of clarity. Then I slide to your feetand the eight openingsof your fingers, sharp zones,.your fingers slow, Peninsular,and I fall from their highin the vacuum of the white sheetwhere I'm looking, insect blindand hungry your outlinehot pottery!

Résultats (Anglais) 2:

From your hips to your feet
I want to make a long journey for me, smaller than an insect I'm among these hills, they are oatmeal color with slight traces that I alone know, the scorched centimeters, prospects pale . Here stands a mountain. I never go out in. O what giant foam! And a crater, a rose wet fire dew! by I go down your legs spinning spiral or sleeping in the trip and I get to your knees, with their round hardness similar to rough peaks of a continent clarity. Then I slip into your feet and towards the eight openings of your fingers, sharp time, your slow, peninsular fingers, and I fall from their high in the empty white cloth which I seek, insect blind and hungry your outline of burning pottery!

Résultats (Anglais) 3:

From your hips to thy feet
i want to do a long trip

Me, smaller than an insect

i will among these hills,
they are color of oats
with traces of slight
that I am the only person to know,
of centimêtres scorched,
of blafardes prospects.

there sits a mountain.
i never did go forth.
O what foam giant!
and a crater, a pink
fire wet dew!

By your legs i stay
in Thready in spiral
or sleeping in the trip
and i arrived at your knees,
to round their hardness
kind to the bitter summits
of a continent of clarity.

And Then i slid to thy feet
and toward the eight openings
of thy fingers, sharp time zones,
thy fingers slow, Iberian peninsula,
and i dropped from their top
in the vacuum of the drap white
or i sought,insect blind
And hungry tone contour
of burning pottery !