Tristan Corbiere – Piccola morte per ridere / A little death to make one laugh

Go quickly, wanton comber of comets!
In wind, the grass will become your hair;
from the yawning socket of your eye flare
tiny fires, mad prisoners in an oubliette.
The blooms on your grave, taking love’s sobriquet,
swell your earthbound laughter…
And forget-me-nots, flowers one is doomed to forget…
Don’t make it too heavy. For morticians, poets
coffin are as easy to make as air, 
like empty violin cases – bare
of sound… they’ll think you’re dead, the dimwits.
Go quickly, wanton comber of comets!