Machicolation of words of grace  
at the main door of the turnstile of emotions    
make make make small puppets    
under the fragrant canopy of feast days    
to rock the sweet child.        
 
There are escapades    
what we have to do    
and time erodes    
phlegmatically when the storks pass    
on the snowy plain.        
 
A thousand golden fruits fallen during the night    
gather the day laborers    
for a day broken by melancholy     
my soul my wisdom    
the impeccable sword of new beginnings.        
 
I admit to taking shelter    
at my friend the poet    
à l'univers courbe    
when rises from the bottom of the valley    
the breeze of the mind.        
 
I move I move from love    
in the hollow of the hoarsely breathing waves    
pebbles against pebbles    
que la voix des volets vole    
heurtant la pierre en cadence.        
 
Puissent les pas sur les dalles
smash in a mighty way    
the code of habits    
and submit to the pillory    
the flabbergasted remonstrance of our teachings.        
 
there is no blood    
que la poussière    
fine fishnet on the sand of the arenas    
when does the beast pass    
aux flancs de banderilles et de suint mêlés.        
 
To come back    
sage    
at the edge of the wave    
entre la couronne d'une ronde      
et le baiser de joie.
 
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