SONG FROM AN AIRPLANE

I am out in the open sky
of all aesthetics;
sinister operator
of great systems,
I have my hands
full
of blue continents.

Here, from within this bulwark,
I will await the fall of leaves.
Aviation
anticipates its loot,
and an avian fistful
defends its memory.
Song
flowering
with aerial roses,
enthusiastic
propulsion
of new propellers,
cloudless ineffable metaphor of wings.

Singing.
                                Singing.
From above everything is
balanced and superior,
and life
is the applause that resounds
in the deep heartbeat of the plane.

Suddenly
my heart
turns over imminent panoramas;
all the streets rise up toward the solitude of schedules;
subversion
of clear perspectives;
“looping the loop”
on the romantic trampoline of the sky,
modern exercise
in the ingenuous atmosphere of the poem;
the color of the firmament
boarded by Nature.

Upon arrival I will deliver to you this voyage of surprises,
perfect equilibrium of my astronomical flight;
you, you will be awaiting me in the madhouse of afternoon,
just so, dispelled of distances,
perhaps crying over the word autumn.

Cities of the north
                            of our America,
yours and mine;
            New-York,
            Chicago,
            Baltimore.

The Government regulates the colors of day,
tropical ports
of the Atlantic,
blue coasts
of the oceanographic garden,
where the merchant steamers
become signals;
emigrant palm trees,
cannibal river of fashion,
springtime, always you, so svelte with flowers.

Land where birds played at their pivots
Fluttering your perfume things fade,
and you yourself distantly smile and sparkle,
O electoral girlfriend, carroussel  of glances!
I will launch the candidacy of your love
today that all may be supported by your throat,
the orchestra of the wind, and nude colors.
Something is happening there in your heart.

Seasons turning
while I capitalize on your nostalgia,
and everything confused from dreams and from images;
victory illuminates my senses
and the signs of the zodiac pulse.

Solitude clutched against the infinite breast.
From this side of time,
I sustain the pulse of my song;
your recollection increases like a regret,
and the half-open landscape falls from my hands.