I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou. I see them as a lover sees,As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.Who speaks? But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whomThe bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart. The peaches are large and round,Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open. The sunlight fillsThe curtains. Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me. I did not knowThat such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.
