In the Suns of Cimes While tumbled The shadow of the trees I summon life I keep the herd I make small circles in the water Saute-Ruisseau.
Tranquilized I get the bag from under the arm Open Seized the sandwich In his fatty paper Readjust the bread slice And crunches the crust pins.
Press the size Between the traits of the udder Make the pus Between thumb and index Until the blood appears Then encourage the dog to lick the wound Before spreading the beast of a tape.
I draw in the fatty soil Some signs with the stick That I sprinkle with sage I make a moss hole in the wall I scratch the soot above the stone before I sit down I listen to the cry of Milan Passing and ironing.
I record in the wind To avoid juniper A rest of flame dance on the heap of ashes I take a lean on the wall Adjust the cap Reboutonne the leather jacket The legend of lost hearts can go be seen.
All whispers amuses me Such a treat in the glass jar at the grocer While slamming language The riquette in its bowl The sink of the ash Comes to rub on the glass Flies.
