The Poet’s Princess
At last you have acknowledged her presence. You stop dead before her. Finding your own reflection in her eyes, you get lost in her forever. Dizzy spinning in the vertigo of yet unknown feeling, you fall to her feet, madly in love. With her? With yourself? Who cares? “Love” is a haphazard word.
Deigning to see the man, prostrated in his adoration, the woman perseveres in her musing. Suddenly she shivers. Her glances stream in blazing cascades over the man adoring love in her image.
Little bird fallen out of its nest, blind, helpless love, what will you become in this furnace of dreams?
Poet, you who stand hesitating on the edge of your passion, dazzled by the waltz of blazing hearts, bow before this gruesome beauty, crueller here than anywhere else.
With a gracious wave of her alabaster hand, Anne Geneviève de Bourbon invites Jean-François Sarasin to sit down by her side and entertain her.
The first encounter of the Princess and the Poet is beyond the hill.