The sickly spring sadly chased away

The winter, the season of serene art, the lucid winter,

And, in my being in whom the glum blood presides

Impotence stretches itself in a long yawn 

White twilights warm under my skull

Which an iron circle squeezes thus which an old grave

And sad, I roam after a vague and lovely dream,

By the fields where the immense sap struts about 

Then I fall irritated by the scent of trees, tired,

And digging a pit with my face in my dream,

Biting the warm ground where lilacs grow,

I wait, by damaging me my boredom rises…

---However the Azure laughs on the hedge and the awakening

Of so many birds in flower chirping in the sun. 

03/27/2008