À André Breton
The Equality of Sexes
Your eyes are revenues of an arbitrary country
Where no one has ever known what a look is
Neither knew the beauty of eyes, beauty of stones,
The water droplets, the pearls in the cupboards.
Of stones naked and without skeleton, Ô my statue,
The blind sun holds up a mirror to you
And if he seems obey to powers of evening
It’s that your head is closed, ô fallen statue.
By my love and by my wild ruses.
My still desire is your last support
And I bring you without battle, ô my image,
Broken à my weakness and taken from my links.
At the Heart of My Love
A beautiful bird shows me the light
It is in their eyes, in full view.
It sings on a mistletoe ball
At the middle of the sun
*
The eyes of singing animals
And their songs of anger or of vague
Have forbidden me de go out to this bed
I’ll spend my life there.
The dawn in countries without grace
Take the appearance of the forgetting.
And that the woman falls asleep, in the dawn,
The head the first, its fall illuminates it.
Constellations,
You knew the form of her head
Here, everything goes dark :
The landscape is complete, blood of joys,
The masses decrease and flow in my heart
With the sleeping.
And that thus wants to take my heart.
*
I never dreamed to one such a beautiful night.
The women of the garden look for kissing me
Heavenly supports, the motionless trees
Kiss well the shadow which them support.
A woman at the pale heart
Take the night in her clothes.
The love have discovered the night
On her impalpable breasts.
How pleasure take to all?
Rather all erasing.
The man of all the movements,
Of all the sacrifices and of all the conquests
Sleep. He sleeps, he sleeps, he sleeps.
He crosses the tiny, invisible night with his sighs.
It’s neither cold nor hot.
His prisoner escaped — pour sleeping.
He didn’t pass away, he sleeps.
When he fallen asleep
All astonished,
He played with passion,
He watched,
He heard.
His last speak :
“If it was to restart, I meet you without you seek.”
He sleeps, he sleeps, he sleeps.
The dawn has had beautiful rinsing of the head.
He sleeps.
To Get Caught in the Trap
It’s a restaurant like the others. Should we believe that I don’t look like to person? A big woman, on the side of me, beats eggs with her fingers. A traveller lays his clothes on a table and holds me up. It’s tormented, I don’t know nothing mystery, I don’t know same the meaning of words : mystery, I’ve never search yet, nothing find, he’s wrong to insist.
The thunderstorm that, at times, comes out of the mist turns my eyes and shoulders. The space has then the doors and the windows. The traveller declares to me that I’m not more the same. More the same! I pick up the debris of all the wonders. It’s the big woman which said to me that they are the debris of wonders, these debris. I throw them to the rapid brooks and planes of birds. The sea, the calm sea is among them like the sky in the light. The colours too, then they talk to me of colours, I don’t look more. Speak to me of the forms, I have grand want to concern.
Big woman, talk to me of the forms, or I fall asleep and I lead the high life, the hands take in the head and the head in the mouth, in the mouth much close, internal language.
Lovers
She is standing on my eyelids.
And her hair is in the mine,
She has the form of my hands,
She has the colour of my eyes,
She sinks into my shadow
Like a stone on the sky.
She has always the eyes open
And doesn’t let me sleep.
Her dreams in vast light
Make vanish the suns,
Make me laugh, sweep and laugh,
Speak without having nothing to tell.
The deaf and the blind
Will we win the sea with bells
In our pockets, with the noise of the sea
In the sea, or will we be the bearers
Of a water more pure and silent?
The water scrubs the hands sharpen the knives.
The warriors are found their arms in the flows
And the noise of their hits is seem to this one
Rocks smash the ships in the night.
It’s the storm and the thunder. Why not of the silence
Of the flood, because we have in all we the dreamed space
For the most big silence and we breathe
Like the wind of the terrible seas, like the wind
That crawls slowly on all the horizons.
Habit
All my little friends are dented :
They like their mother.
All my animals are required,
They have feet of marble
And by hands of window.
The wind deforms,
It needs a habit to mesure,
Excessive.
This is why
I say the truth without the saying.
In the Dance
Small childish table,
there’s women which of eyes are like the pieces of sugar,
there’s serious women like the movements of the love that we don’t surprise
there’s women of pale faces,
of others like the sky to the watch for the wind
Small golden table of the days of festival,
there’s women of green wood and dark
those which weep,
of dark and green wood :
those which smile.
Small table too low or too high.
there’s women greasy
with the light shadows,
there’s hollow dresses
dry dresses
dresses that at the door of her room and which the love don’t bring out.
Small table,
I don’t like the tables on which I dance,
I had no idea.