A lace abolishes itself

In the uncertainty of the supreme Game

Not to half-open like a blasphemy

Only eternal absence of bed

That unanimous white conflict

From a garland with the same

Buried against a pallid window

Floats more than it buries

But, in the home of him who dreams it gilds itself

Sadly a lute sleeps

In the hollow void of music

Such as toward some window

According to no belly like that of his,

Filial, we would have been able to be born

04/12/2008