By Nirina Mignon
There is a species of Truth which is called absolute,
Since its predicates exclude accident before the pen is raised, the paper gilded with soot.
By the treble’s tether, in perfect key was every strum,
Antequam factum est, in illius corde dixit esset bonum.
Of these is that a circle’s radii are identical,
The ruler unneeding trapeze placement or measurement optical;
That the constellations drawn by the orbit’s reins
Will nonetheless indicate East from West: the land of Edom from Cain’s;
That as many days are raised unto me,
Yea, the number set as edict by He who was raised without robbery,
Each and every one will be a day of exult.
You, who is peerless in result,
Yet whose train of attendants, much like the incident light,
Reflects the pearl’s prism by the angle’s levy;
Plenijouvante, par un simple regard se disant “Ami”,
By the capture of claws you have made me Ganymede.
The applied has become the ideal, friction went as you turned the dial,
Becoming the premise to my yearlong smile.
In this state of your authorship, this perfect union,
Vinegar is sweet as the bee’s poesy; a death not without Unction.