Forehead Of The Rose

Despite the open window in the room of long absence, the odor of the rose is still linked with the
breath that was there. Once again we are without previous experience, newcomers, in love. The
rose! The field of its ways would dispel even the effrontery of death. No grating stands in the way.
Desire is alive, an ache in our vaporous foreheads.

One who walks the earth in its rains has nothing to fear from the thorn in places either finished or
unfriendly. But if he stops to commune with himself, woe! Pierced to the quick, he suddenly flies to
ashes, an archer reclaimed by beauty.

by René Char

Other poems of RENÉ CHAR (2)

Comments (4)

Very well put! Good write!
J'aime beaucoup! ce cynisme...! !
very well said.........go for yours.
Now don't go flaming me because you own a Mercedes... Chances are if your reading this, you're not aimed at. Right? Of course there are exceptions. I just haven't met any.