It is life in slow motion,it's the heart in reverse,it's a hope-and-a-half:too much and too little at once.
It's a train that suddenlystops with no station around,and we can hear the cricket,and, leaning out the carriagedoor, we vainly contemplatea wind we feel that stirsthe blooming meadows, the meadowsmade imaginary by this stop.
Translated by A.
Poulin
