Winter’s night lifts to the sky its pure chalice.
And I lift my heart too, my nocturnal heart,
Lord, my heart! towards your pale empty infinite.
But still I know that everything is taciturn
and that nothing exists of which this heart dies, greedy;
and I know you lie and to you my lips pray
and my knees; I pray; I know your great clasped hands
and your great eyes closed to despairs that cry out,
and know that it’s me who alone dreams myself in things:
have pity, Lord, for my consummate madness.
I need to weep my evil towards your silence…
Winter’s night lifts to the sky its pure chalice.