To my Mom,




Folded amid the pleat of your pleading phalanx
The polished stones perspire against the liquid
Metal. Pleasing among ladies the most placid
Alas the precious possessing them does not mix,

With the muzzled and mild-mannered muted muses
Or with mischievous ones pummeling the world’s walls
Grumbling in their baleful and poisonous houses
Masters of the sapphire which in their hands falls.

And binding the blessed garland along the long line
Of your blinding blazing gorgeous blond golden hair
I thus hope it is to you a fine and a fair,

Sign of a love whose ripeness has just bloomed like wine
This gift could be detailed the echo of a dart
That is, in this sole spring repeated by my heart.

Lyon, May 23, 2014