Year: 1968
I go fishing the bleak in the holes of Loire
I do not stop. I am at Montaigu
I am looking for the lost handkerchief
Of my grand mother.
The rain gives its languidness back to the golden beach
A wedding goes down to Saint-Paul by the strands
It's midnight, the moor is full of rabbits sat in circle
Around a very pale korrigan who speaks about death and sailors
I hunt the heather and the thyme in Sologne
Fascinated by the water that boils in the marshes
I run after the trains that roam on the moor
I look for the tracks of the basque hermit
Who let the horses pass the border
France, that sea where I sail as I like
Alone facing the wind and the silence in me
Around me laying down
Like a long white dog raised with an order
I rock the sleep of the pounds
The secret in the hidden yards
The capital of the good Lord lost in the eyes of our women
The wet sun of the mornings where a drown girl sinks
The world is a weird kingdom
Which mad prince is curious.
It's an old prince without children
Who wanders and struts about
In a long curtain grey and red.
So I go like the wind
I go along grey boardings
Look for the sun of the children
I do not know anything about myself,
about the world that is calling me
I bring the wide open words
Of my roads, of my insanities
Here and there the burnt words in the gazes
Spread on the brown tables.
The flesh, the blood, the juice and that animal world.
The words run under the things
Pubescent, warm, sweaty and vermilion
Runing along the trains, along the roads.
The words hung to the trees
and going through the hedges
Unknown, whispered, noticed, guessed,
And those that cracks in the morning
When floats some marine songs
Linen of women under the sun
Sitting on the embankments,
the words and the hanging legs
And that many-coloured universe
that is looking for its female
and doesn't know why.
I leave, I only like the words and the colors.
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