Let me breathe, long, long, of the odor of your hair, let me plunge my
whole face in its depth, as a thirsty man in the waters of a spring,
let me flutter it with my hand as a perfumed kerchief, to shake off
memories into the air.
If you could know all that I see! all that I feel! all that I
understand in your hair! My soul journeys on perfumes as the souls of
other men on music.
Your hair meshes a full dream, crowded with sails and masts; it holds
great seas on which monsoons bear me toward charming climes, where the
skies are bluer and deeper, where the atmosphere is perfumed with
fruits, with leaves, and with the human skin.
In the ocean of your hair I behold a port humming with melancholy
chants, with strong men of all nations and with ships of every form
carving their delicate, intricate architecture on an enormous sky where
lolls eternal heat.
In the caresses of your hair, I find again the languor of long hours
on a divan, in the cabin of a goodly ship, cradled by the unnoticed
undulation of the port, between pots of flowers and refreshing
water-jugs.
At the glowing hearth-stone of your hair, I breathe the odor of tobacco
mixed with opium and sugar; in the night of your hair, I see shine
forth the infinite of the tropic sky; on the downy bank-sides of your
hair, I grow drunk with the mingled odors of tar and musk, and oil of
cocoanut.
Let me bite, long, your thick black hair. When I nibble your springy,
rebellious hair, it seems that I am eating memories.