I'm not sure I ever shared this with you . . . it is the translation to the French piece we are doing by Cosma, courtesy of Lauren Askew on November 11, 2004 (and some English-French translation software):
Let me breathe a long time, the fragrance of your hair, plunge there all my face like a man impaired in the water of a spring and to stir (or agitate) them with my hand like a sweet-smelling hankerchief, to shake memories from the air.
My love travels on the perfume like the love of the other men on the music. In the ocean of your hair i see a port swarming with songs, melancholic, vigorous men of all nations and ships of all forms of cutting. Their fine architectures and complicate on an immense sky or wearies the eternal heat.
In the burning hearth of your hair, I breathe the odor of tobacco, mixed, has opium with sugar. In the night of your hair, I see shining the infinite trpical blues. On the shores of the sleeping bag of your hair, I get drunk on the combined odors of tar, musk and coconut oil.
Let me bite your heavy and black braids a long time. when I bite your elastic and rebellious braids. It seems to me that I eat memories.
I'm sure we'll unpack and clarify this into something coherent.
For now, just get a sense of it.