I do intend to get to bed before the light comes into the sky this morning. That may increase (however marginally) my chances of getting to sleep. Most likely, I'll lie there wide awake, but I want to give it a shot. I might even open the heater vent a bit, just to bring some languor-inducing warmth into this icy room. Sluggo will be sleeping, anyway. He never has trouble getting to sleep, even when I want him awake. So, on to the poetry, for the last time this year. (And once again, my apologies for the absence of the diacritical marks in the poet's name. I have no French font, and don't think that my obsolete keyboard would allow for its use in any case. Just imagine the accents over the first "e" in his first name and over the "e" that terminates his surname.)
by Stephane Mallarme
I do not come tonight to conquer your flesh, O beast with the sins of the race, nor your impure hair to stir up a melancholy tempest by the fatal ennui that my kisses pour:
I ask but to sleep soundly in your bed where no dreams lurk under curtains unknown to regret, sleep you can savor past your black deceits, you who know more of Nothing than the dead:
for Vice, corroding my nobility inborn, brands both with its sterility, but while there lives within your breast of stone
a heart no tooth of any crime can prod, Wasted and pale and haunted by my shroud, I flee, afraid to die if I sleep alone.