To Francis Jourdain
Dreams
A little child
Around the marbles..
A dull voice
Of high surroundings..
The eyes if heavy
Of those which loves you
Reflecting and passing
Among the trees..
At the big organ
Of what station
Make big the wave
By old departures..
In an old dream
To the far lands
Of brave things
They break sages.
Arbors
Saps of stained glass flash the silence
On the arbors to green eyes where smiles Marie…
Passed under the green arch…
A arm of swing incenses the silence
With an end of robe which watch et which sing!
Those which it is spoken cause by old Sundays
In the honour of the past.
The glow of his hands reflect the silence
Which streak
On the root, at the outside, cyclists who make
A noise de dragonfly – which point et which fold…
Under the green arch which turns pale, she smiles…
My heart bangs the door
In the darkness..
I like very horrible the saying…
It passes in my glass,
Like the clear wings,
Its gestures, its smile…
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