Soon…
Very soon, my friend…
We will discover that all the optimists
Are insane more than any absurdity.
In your dreams… just as in every morning…
You arrange your dreams
Like precious furniture devices;
A bramble vase here…
A velvet, dull sofa there…
Some fingers missing around.
Oh, Farida!
Did you have to take the flowers out of the window?
Sprinkle the salt all over the place?
This heart cannot anymore grumble…
The basil in my mother’s garden just withered.
Outside the bells toll…
For another last Last Supper.
You arrange your dreams… Again
Here… There. Again
It is the wandering spirit
Since the blooming of first spring flowers