The past keeps popping up
Beneath our wondering eyes
The sound of some caress
Rises from a leafless tree.

We plot on the earth
We plot in the air
We follow the mystery
In these small facts.

It is dangerous to please
Among the world we live in
And it is better to keep silent
Then to listen to what is said.

Let us carry our discreet soul
In the green radiance
Of the woods whose heads we see
Blacken the blue firmament.

Our fertile laziness
Has the insight
Of a man who, in drunken drunkenness
Seeks his lucidity.

Is a bit of a fool who composes
In prose or verse
Genius is a thing
That on looks at askew.

We are born to be a poet
The bag on the back
They...