I attach no importance to lifeI pin not the least of life's butterflies to importanceI do not matter to
But the branches of salt the white
All the shadow
And the
Come down and breathe within my
They come from tears that are not
From steps I do not take that are steps
And of which the sand remembers the
The bars are in the
And the birds come down from far above to sing before these barsA subterranean passage unites all perfumesA woman pledged herself there one
This woman became so bright that I could no longer see
With these eyes which have seen my own self burningI was then already as old as I am
And I watched over myself and my thoughts like a night watchman in an immense factory Keeping watch
The circus always enchants the same tramlines The plaster figures have lost nothing of their expression They who bit the smile's figI know of a drapery in a forgotten
If it pleased me to appear to you wrapped in this
You would think that your end was
Like
At last the fountains would understand that you must not say
The wolves are clothed in mirrors of snow I have a boat detached from all climates I am dragged along by an ice-pack with teeth of flame I cut and cleave the wood of this tree that will always be green A musician is caught up in the strings of his instrument The skull and crossbones of the time of any childhood story Goes on board a ship that is as yet its own ghost only Perhaps there is a hilt to this sword But already there is a duel in this hilt During the duel the combatants are unarmed Death is the least offence The future never
The curtains that have never been
Float to the windows of houses that are to be
The beds made of
Slide beneath the lamps of
There will come an
The nuggets of light become still underneath the blue
The hands that tie and untie the knots of love and of
Keep all their transparency for those who have eyes to
They see the palms of
The crowns in
But the brazier of crown and
Can scarcely be lit in the deepest part of the
There where the stags bend their heads to examine the
Nothing more than a feeble beating is
From which sound a thousand louder or softer sounds
And the beating goes on and
There are dresses that
And their vibration is in unison with the
When I wish to see the faces of those that wear themA great fog rises from the
At the bottom of the steeples behind the most elegant reservoirs of life and of
In the gorges which hide themselves between two mountains On the sea at the hour when the sun cools down Those who make signs to me are separated by stars And yet the carriage overturned at full speed Carries as far as my last hesitation That awaits me down there in the town where the statues of bronzeand of stone have changed places with statues of wax Banyans banyans.
