The Green Hour, Poem by Charles Cros

As if cradled in a hammock
Thought sways and whirls,
At this hour when every stomach
Drowns in a flood of absinthe.

And absinthe permeates the air,
For this hour is all emerald.
Appetite sharpens the scent
Of more than one rosy nose that prowls.

Casting the knowing gaze
Of her great aquamarine eyes,
Circe seeks whence comes the wind
That caresses her nostrils.

And, toward unknown dinners,
She runs across the opal
Of the evening mist. Venus
Lights up in the pale-green sky.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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