When
night fades
a little before the springtime
and of a rarity
someone passes

a dark colour
of weeping
thickens over Paris

on a poem
of a bridge
I contemplate
the boundless silence
of a slender
girl

our
ills
flow together

and how, borne away,
she remains

A night is born
full of false holes
dead sounds
like the corks
of nets trailed in the water.

Your hands bring a breath
of inviolable distances
as elusive as ideas.

And the ambiguous sway
of the moon, of the gentlest,
if you rest your eyes on me,
touches the spirit.

You’re the woman who passes by
like a leaf.

And bequeaths an autumn flame to the trees.

From the deep anxiety of dawn
the grove of trees unveils.
Sad awakenings.
Leaves, sister leaves,
I hear your lament.
Autumns,
moribund sweetness.
O youth,
the hour of growth is barely past.
High skies of youth
impetuous freedom.
And I am already desert.
Caught on this melancholy arc.
But night scatters distances.
Oceanic silences,
astral nests of illusion,
O night.