Delphine
& Hippolyte
Out of the pale clarity of the languishing
lamps,
From
the depth of the cushions impregnated with scents,
Hippolyte
dreams of powerful caresses
Raising the curtain on her young candour.
She
searches, with a troubled eye lost in the tempest,
In
her naivety with the sky at once distant,
Like
a traveller turning their head
Towards
the blue horizons exceeding the morning.
Through
her absorbed eyes the languorous tears,
The
desolate air, the stupor, the mournful volupté
Her
vanquished arms outspread like two discharged guns,
Everything
served, it would appear conforming to her fragile beauty.
Strong
beauty than down on her knees before frail,
Superb,
she inhales voluptuously
The
wine of her triumph, and leans forward towards her,
As
if to gather a gentle acknowledgement.
She
searches in the eye of her pale victim
The
mute canticle which pleasure sings,
And
that infinite and sublime gratitude
Which
dissimulates from the pupil like a great sigh.
“Hippolyte,
dear heart, what say you of things?
Do
you understand now that you should not offer
The
sacred holocaust of your very first roses
To
the violent winds that could decimate them?
My
kisses are as light and as ephemeral
As
those caresses that pass over the great transparent lakes,
And
those of your lover plough up furrows
Like
ploughshares ripping through the earth;
They
pass over you like a heavy team
Of
workhorses or oxen with pitiless hooves…
O
Hippolyte, my sister! Turn your face to me,
Turn
towards me, my sweet soul sister, my other half, my all!
Turn
your eyes towards me full of azure and stars!
For
one of those charming looks, divine balm,
Obscure
pleasures can unfurl like so many sails
Lulling
you into a dream without end!”
But
Hippolyte, raising her young head responds:
“
I am not such an ingrate, and certainly do not repent,
But,
Delphine, having said that, I suffer just as if I have
Eaten
some terrible super and can’t sleep.
I
feel some terrible dread bearing down upon me
And
the dark ghost battalions fragment,
And
wish to manoeuvre me into oscillating paths
Upon
which a blood horizon secretly encroaches.
Have
we both not committed some strange deed?
Explain
to me, if you can, my trouble and fright ;
As
I tremble with fear when you say to me: “ My Angel!”
And,
yet, I feel my lips approaching yours.
Don’t
look at me like that, I beseech you!
You
whom I love like no one else, my elected sister,
Though
you are nothing less than a beautiful trap
And
the cause of my complete perdition.
Shaking
her tragic mane, Delphine,
Stamping
her feet like a tripod of iron,
With
a fatal eye, responds with a despot’s voice :
“Before
Love, who then dares to speak of Hell?
In
the things of Love, who then would speak of Honesty!
Damned
forever would the deluded dreamer be,
In
their utter stupidity to be the first too
To
fall into that sterile and unsolvable problem!
Those
who would wish to unite such a mystic accord,
Like the shade with the heat, the night with
the day,
Will
never heat their paralytic corpses
With
the red sun that we call Love.
Go,
if you want, and find some stupid fiancé:
Offer
your virginal heart to his cruel embraces;
And,
full of remorse and livid horror,
You’ll
return to me with your stigmatised breasts…
We
cannot here below be a slave to one sole Master!”
But
the child, taken hold as if by some immense pain,
Suddenly
cries out: “ I feel taking hold of my Being
A
great abyss, and this abyss is my heart!
Like
a volcano it consumes me, as profound as the void.
Nothing
will satiate the whimpering monster,
Just
like the thirst of the Eumenides cannot not be sated,
Yes,
with torch in hand, your blood thus will burn.
Would
that a great theatre curtain could separate the world,
And
that our lassitude bring forth strength!
I
want to annihilate myself in your profound gorge,
And
find upon your breasts the appeasement of the tomb.”
Descend,
descend, descend, lamentable victims,
Descend
into the eternal pathway to Hell,
Plunge
yourselves into the most profound gulfs where all crime,
Flagellated
by a wind which does not come from the sky,
Buffets
pel mell with the noise of a storm.
Crazed
shadows, run, follow to the end all of your desires;
But
never will you be able to appease your rage,
And
the torment of the birth of all of your pleasures.
Never
will there be a fresh light to illuminate your caves;
Not
through the cracks the feverish misaims,
Filtering
in through the licking flames by the light of the lanterns
To
finally penetrate your body with their awful perfume.
The
sterile asp of your mutual pleasures
Alters
your thirst and preys upon your skin,
And
the furious wind of your concupiscence
Makes
your flesh rip like an old flag.
Far
from the living, condemned and errant,
Through
great deserts do you run like wolves;
Make
your own destiny, disordered souls,
And
try to escape the infinity that you bear within.
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