Bear | |
Jules Supervielle At the breathless pole A bear is turning round A ball whiter Than snow and himself How can you make him understand From the depths of this Paris That this is an old globe, Ever more and more reduced, Of a midnight sun. The bear is so far away From this closed room. He is so different From the familiar beasts Who pass my door. The bear uncomprehending, bends over His little sun And tries, bit by bit, To warm it with his breath And his dark tongue. As if he took it For a chilly little bear Curled up and motionless With tight closed eyes. |