That flat, sleeping-saucer thing
On which the young man touched
Like a blind caressing his lover,
He fingered it at every offshoot and tapped all hollow places.
Then came the Music, the spouted syllables
Floating down the stairs between Sacré Cœur and Red Desire,
Then came the Void, since there is nothing below the desire:
No support, no reason, no redemption, not to mention resurrection.
I alone hear this instrument in the cinema
Beneath the greenhouse, when Adèle met and left
That blue girl forever, as on the wedding told by Sapho
Who was held by cold sweat and greener than grass.
The hoppers have gone, also the summer songs, now
Grapes are trodden tenderly by laughing girls
Preparing harvest feast.
Archers have their bows, farmers their plows,
All the frail drops join in the rain
As the mortal instruments in the final choral.
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