The makers of religion
Preached in the fog
The shadows we passed by
Played blind man’s bluff

In seventy years
Fresh cheeks of small children
Come come Eleanore
And what do I still know

See the Cyclops is coming
Pipes flew away
But you fly away in
Incorrigible glances
And Europe Europe

Sacred glances
Enamored hands
And the lovers fell in love
As the preachers preached

Guillaume Apollinaire