Barefoot    
 in the dust of the path    
 we were able to join them    
 companions of famine    
 near the iron cross.        
  
 The house was there    
 white at the end of the village    
 at the edge of the Lande.        
  
 Up there in the light    
 stole minds    
 under the archer of the violins.        
  
 spring buds    
 slammed open    
 artist's finger rhythm.        
  
 Our porcelain eyes    
 blushed    
 as the cloud advances.        
  
 Voices were raised    
 vibrating with clear notes    
 under the shining yoke    
 absolute hours.        
  
 Together    
 generations passed    
 dressed in long white dresses.        
  
 I recognized grandfather Victor and his stick  
 the poet's carnation between the teeth 
 grandmother Marie and her vivacity    
 then godmother Fernande pinch-mi pinch me.        
  
 The bells were ringing    
 the cloud opened    
 and saw dawn    
 blue egg felibrige.        
  
 My soul    
 my unique childhood    
 you thrive in the eternal crowd    
 my brothers and sisters gathered    
 in the drape of peregrinations    
 in the middle world    
 where is born and dies     
 the great relief.        
  
 This Monday there were people at the fairground    
 of dung and blue beetles    
 under the hardened berets    
 the cigarette at the corner of the lips    
 to discuss    
 to clap their hands    
 bargain.        
  
  
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