Figures Poem by Jules Supervielle

I shuffle faces like cards
in spite of myself, and all
are dear to me. Sometimes
one falls to the ground
and I look for it in vain.
The card has disappeared.
I know nothing more.
Still, it was a fine face
I had grown fond of.
I shuffle other cards.
There's unease in this room,
I mean to say my heart
continues to burn
but not for that card
replaced by another.
The face is a new one.
It completes the hand,
yet it remains disfigured.
That's all I know.
No-one knows any more.

Translations by IAN SEED.