Supplication, Poem by Charles Cros

Sonnet

Your eyes, impassive probers
Of an ideal polar sea,
Are sometimes lit by the splendors
Of laughter, an aurora borealis.

Your hair, in those fine
And warm scents it exhales,
Makes one dream of prowling tigers
In a tropical clearing.

Your soul has these various aspects:
Serene coldness of winters,
Deceptive gentleness of the wild beast.

Chilled with cold, or torn
By beautiful teeth, I shall die
Unless your heart saves me.

Charles Cros

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

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