This idol, eyes black, yellow mane, orphaned and heartless, nobler than the yarn, Mexican or Flemish; its domain, azures and insolent verdures, runs across the names of beaches, through waves without vessels, ferocious appellations of Greek, and Slav, Celt.
At the foyer of the forest, -- the flowers in reveries tint, thunder, flash -- the girl of the orange lip, crossed of her knees in the brilliant flood that springs from the prairies, a bareness obscured, traversed, and dressed in rainbows, flora, the sea.
Matrons who turn over the neighboring terraces of the ocean; children and giants, proud blacks in vert-green muss, jewels strewn over the gelatin clumps of groves and the tiny, gelated menageries, -- teenage mothers and older sisters whose eyes are full of wandering, sultans, princesses of gait and tyrannical costume, petite strangers and people sweetly melancholy.
What ennui, the hour of "dear body", "dear soul"!
That's her, the little cadaver, behind the rosebush. -- The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. The carriage of a neighbor cries over the sand. -- The little brother -- (he's in India!) there, in front of the sleeping, in the prairie of eyelets. -- We have buried the aged in order by the wallflowers' rampart.
The swarm of golden leaves surrounds the house of the general. They're in the South. You follow the red route to arrive at the empty inn. The château is for sale; the shutters are detached. -- The priest will have taken the key to the church. -- Around the park, the apartments of the guards are vacant. The palisades are so high that you can't see anything but the breaking summits. Besides, there's nothing to see below.
The prairies climb back up to the hamlets sans cocks, anvils. The sluice has lifted. Oh the calvaries and the mills of the wilderness, the isles and millstones!
The magic flowers were buzzing. The embankments lulling it. The beasts of a fabulous elegance moving around. The clouds amassed themselves at the height of the sea forged in its eternity of hot tears.
In the forest there is a bird, her song stops you and makes you blush.
There is a clock that doesn't tick.
There is a mire with a nest of white beasts.
There is a cathedral that falls and a lake that climbs.
There is a little car abandoned in the copse, or one that descends the path in a stream, beribboned.
There is a troupe of little clowns in costume, perceived on the way through the forest's fringe.
There is, finally, when one thirsts for it and hungers, someone to chase you.
I am the saint, in prayer on the terrace, like the pacific beasts who graze near the edge of the Palestine sea.
I am the scholar in the somber armchair. The branches and rain throw themselves on the library's window.
I'm the urchin on Broadway by the midget woods; the rumor of sluices covers my tracks. I gaze a long time at the mournful detergent of setting gold.
I would be a good child abandoned to the jutting part of the high sea, little footman following the alley whose limit touches the sky.
The paths come after. The hillocks cover themselves in broom. The air is immobile. How the birds and the fountains are far! It must be the end of the world, advancing.
Lease me this tomb at last, blanched in the lime with lines of cement in relief, -- so far under earth.
I'm leaning on a table; the lamp is shining with such vigor on these journals I'm a fool to reread, these books without interest.
An enormous distance above my subterranean salon, houses are stretching their roots, fogs are assembling. The muck is rouge and noir. Monstrous city, night without end!
Less high up are the sewers. Around me, nothing but the thickness of the globe. Perhaps gulfs of azure, shafts of flame. Possibly it's on these planes that the moons and comets, seas and fables meet.
Through the bitter hours, I imagine balls of sapphire, metal. I am the master of silence. Why would the image of a basement window blemish in the corner, the vault's?
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