Do we ever know    
what has to be done    
for the door to open.        
 
clouds pass    
in their cotton carriages    
such kisses of peace.          
 
Locked up mission    
that the cavalcade    
in the ruins of the palace    
to serve you    
got me in trouble        
to seize the stem of aquileia    
under the goatee of the master    
without servility    
in the locker room of bitter rhymes    
and to preamble    
the complaint of wandering souls    
in front of the carmine basket.     
 
Intermittent crack    
in the wall of incantations    
we could bring back to earth    
the receipt of the passage in heaven     
this forgetful water clock    
with poetic adornment   
to strike the hot iron    
in the forge of Pierrefite    
as mist rose    
near the birdhouse   
leaving vision of our ancestors         
trimmed daffodils and narcissus.        
 
 
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