Step by step,   
 from trip to trip,   
 in a circus circle   
 that the sand insulates    
 the rumor raises the curtains of the show. 
    
 colorful entrance,   
 noisy barnum,   
 raised dust   
 of the animal procession,   
 passions of the soul   
 raised to the pinnacles of the temples   
 to dismantle,   
 to make sense   
 and transform.     

 Of blood and colors,   
 the furious cries of the Erinyes   
 have destroyed the landscapes of childhood,   
 the clay lips of springs    
 have made way   
 with cement nozzles,   
 the stone of the protections has been torn out,   
 the hedges have been cut down,   
 filled ditches,   
 the silver fox   
 will no longer find the center,   
 an evil wind blows the lumps of earth   
 towards the dry stone terraces,   
 an old ash tree whispers its last dispositions.     

 The night coos,   
 soul pigeons   
 overhanging   
 breaches of the human condition,   
 populist lies   
 replace the song of the poets,   
 the tracks of war engines   
 follow the iron shoes of the hairy,   
 the sky is darkening,   
 even the trees sculpted by the west wind   
 lay down in the storm.    
 
 The air is foul,   
 on the wailing wall   
 life papers   
 crumpled and forced   
 at the joints of the stones   
 covered in lichens   
 become panting flesh   
 of a random tzimtzum. 
     
 emaciated hands,   
 out of the pockets to match   
 scratch oblivion,   
 rolling eyes   
 clip the values ​​of the spirit,   
 a sour cream   
 clown smile makeup 
 our last wanderings.   
  
 The fury takes over   
 at night,   
 in silence,   
 made ugly by the passes of arms   
 fights and hatreds,   
 dappled by lifting   
 new harvests,      
 become a willing accomplice   
 of a shoddy renaissance.  
    
 There is officinal herbs   
 than those of spring,   
 collegiate herbs    
 of lovers' kiss    
 scattered    
 in search of the great upheaval,   
 a piece of bread   
 at the bottom of the bag,  
 water in the ciborium of alterities.  
   
 We will raise the Sound of ricochets,    
 pebbles thrown on the river,   
 accessible to asylum seekers,   
 coming out of our exile.  

   
332

   memory in apnea   
 four flowers on the windowsill   
 little girl on all fours   
 afloat   
 of a shattered sun   
 by my brother, my friend, my son, my friend   
 associates   
 at dawn a blossoming almond tree   
 when the nail   
 strike out with a sharp line   
 the passage of summer   
 watchtower awakening   
 on the plain arranged   
 wise frontispiece   
 over the forest   
 attendant eye   
 without landing   
 thoughts   
 go up in return   
 this cathedral spire   
 bursting the heritage wicker basket   
 extent   
 on the sheet of origins   
 in the process of being   
 the hanging galoshes   
 at the ends of skinny legs   
 as you go     
 gold dust   
 hands erasing   
 the scepter of requirements   
 escaped lyrics   
 of a burst skin   
 suspicion of remembrances   
 without starvation   
 in this dark land   
 where women, men and children after the grapeshot   
 incense with their clarity   
 the armful of faded flowers   
 disheveled hair   
 to the sarcasm of spiked helmets   
 breaking the shins of bleached bodies   
 in the circus of an emergency evacuation   
 carts and bundles to match   
 my little girl   
 I will make fire   
 once again   
 tell you a bedtime story   
 silver foil   
 placed on the window sill   
 to float   
 on the sea of ​​memories   
 courtship ritual   
 white aperture   
 doors of love   
 to push with a tender gesture   
 far far from shore   
 the shadow of the colossal elm.    

  
331

   Flew  
 the young man with the cigarette  
 in this imbroglio of stairs  
 without the step appearing  
 in exchange for a small chair  
 sit it down what will people say  
 with his long fingers   
 throw the derision  
 sparingly  
 Trojan horse  
 break and enter  
 vincent's room  
 down the hall of expectations  
 the cat jumps on the table  
 hug the child's neck  
 severing with a terminal glance  
 the game of a thousand and one temptations  
 breaking nights oven  
 raised trembling  
 the paddle wheel of renewals  
 in the cool morning  
 nevertheless cauterized  
 buttercups of these thoughts  
 with haunting breath  
 waivers
 at dock  
 without the train tearing the air  
 of its invertebrate stridency
 accumulation of combustion waste  
 for in part
 renew the ardent bending of the faun
 in front of the chanting virgin.

 Behind the window
 winter trees   
 avoided deciding on the spot
 words of love from a bygone past.


330

 At the edge of the dream   
 the father   
 hold out your hand   
 the mother   
 hands behind the back   
 the dog   
 close the trail   
 the child   
 hides.  
   
 In the distance a Dutch mill   
 first floor   
 the apartments are open   
 the columns support the arches   
 a milky white covers the walls   
 the horse is ready.  
      
 One !   
 monte   
 erase the treats   
 with a gesture   
 don't hold back death   
 be the wind in the cool of the clear morning   
 be the glower of your space   
 hiccups life   
 vermilion with a spasm   
 be heaven in glory   
 my child   
 my diamond of the moment   
 at the corner of the lips   
 point of smile   
 just the occasion for a cavalcade   
 just the friction with the eternal.
        
 lightning bolt   
 you know the way   
 slowly   
 except for the interdicts   
 inclinations of the shadows.   
    
 Be   
 frozen at the calvary of the married   
 the target of truths   
 this piece of velvet   
 where to lay your head   
 eye to eye   
 before the tear.    

  
317

 took a walk   
 Sur le chemin entre les blés   
 Piquetés de coquelicots, blueberries and daisies   
 Houppes céréalières  
 Que le vent peignait,    
 D'amples ondulations,    
 Vagues d'un océan bruissant
 Exhaussant le vert tendre des épis.   

 There was the gift of self   
 L'abandon à la nature   
 La vie dans son mystère   
 En sa sainte coquille   
 Au gré du sourire d'un soleil   
 Clignant des nuages   
 À mesure de son avancée.   

 There was the anchor   
 De la maison de pierres noires  
 Vaisseau familial arrimé 
 En bout d'horizon   
 Derrière la ruine des Matillou.
  
 there was heat   
 Du grand'père   
 Des parents   
 Des enfants    
 Tissant    
 Les paroles de sieste   
 Entre journal et tricot.   
      
 " Il faudrait planter un frêne pour avoir de l'ombre. "  

 It was done.   


329