On the coast of ARMOR. - An old convent,
The winds believed themselves there in a windmill,
And the donkeys of the country,
With grated ivy, came to grate their teeth
Against a wall so holed that, to enter it,
We couldn't have found the entrance.
- Alone - but always standing with a rare aplomb,
Crenellated like the jaw of an old woman,
His stunched roof on the corner of the ear,
To the bayant crows, stood the dungeon,
Always proud to have had, in time, his legend...
It was just a nest for smuggled people,
Night vagabonds, bushy lovers,
Stray dogs, old rats, fraudsters and customs officers.
- Today the host was from the one-eyed turret,
A wild poet, with a lead in his wing,
And fell there among the ancient owls
Who estimated him from above. - He respected their holes, -
He, the only paying owl, as his lease carries it:
For twenty-five ecus a year, including: hand over a door. -
For the locals, he did not see them:
Only, in passing, they looked from below,
Showing his window with his nose;
The priest suspected that it was a leprosy;
And the mayor said: - What can I do,
It's rather an Englishman... a Being.
The women had known - probably by the nozzles -
That he lived in concubinage with Muses!...
A heretic finally... Some Parisian
From Paris or elsewhere. - Alas! We don't know anything. -
He was invisible; and, like his Maidens
Didn't display themselves too much, we didn't talk about them anymore.
- He was simply a long, dry, pale flâneur;
An amateur hermit, chased by the gust...
He had loved the beautiful unhealthy countries too much.
Condemned bailiffs, like doctors,
He had posed there, drunk and looking for his place
To die alone or to live in absentia...
Making, of a little like an artist,
A philosopher of about,
Grumbling of sun or cool,
Outside the human track.
He still had a hammock, an old one,
A barbet who slept under the name of Fidèle;
No less faithful was, sad and sweet like him,
Another companion who was called the Boredom.
Dying in sleep, he lived in a dream.
His dream was the flow that rose on the strike,
The flow that was going down;
Sometimes, vaguely, he had to wait...
Wait for what... the flow to rise - the flow to descend -
Or the Absent... Who knows?
Does he know it himself?... To the wind of his gatehouse,
So he forgot how fast the dead go,
He, this lived viveur, returning lost,
Is he looking for his pixie, his, badly buried?
- Certain, She is not far away, the one after whom you roared,
O Deer of Saint Hubert! But your forehead is without flames...
Don't appear, my old, sad and false unearthed...
Be dead if you can... Because she cried for you!
- Could he, He!... wasn't he a poet...
Immortal like any other?... And in his poor head
Moved, he still felt that the verses
Hexameters made the hundred steps crooked.
- Extreme lack of savoir-vivre - he survived -
And - lack of knowing how to die - he wrote:
"It's a being past a hundred moons, my dear,
In your poetic heart, in the legendary state.
I rhyme, so I live... don't be afraid, it's blank.
- An oyster shell broken from the bench! -
Yes, no matter how much I feel: it's me! - Last mistake -
On the way to heaven - because my niche is so high! -
I asked myself, ready to take off:
Head or stack... - And that's it - I still wonder... "
"It was to you that I said goodbye to life,
To you who will cry for me, until I want
To stay crying with you. Now
It's played, I'm just a spoiled revenant,
In bone and... (I was going to say in flesh). - The thing is for sure
It's me, I'm here - but like a erasure. "
"We were lovers of curiosity:
Come see the Bibelot. - I'm disgusted with it. -
In my disgusts especially, I have elegant tastes;
You know: I had let go of Life with gloves;
The Other is not even to be taken with a grain of salt...
I'm looking for a new toilet for the model. "
"Come back to help me: Your eyes in those eyes! Your lip
On this lip!... And, there, don't you feel my fever
- My fever of You?... - Under the orb has he passed
The rainbow with coal by our nights left?
And this star?... - Oh! go, don't look for the star anymore
That you wanted to see on my forehead;
A spider made its web,
In the same place – in the ceiling. "
"I'm a stranger. - Maybe it's better...
- Well! No, come and recognize me a little more;
As in the good Saint Thomas, I want to see your faith,
I want to see you touch the wound and say: - You! -
"Come and finish me off - it's very cheerful: From your room,
You will see my harvests - We are in December -
My big fir woods, the golden flowers of the brooms,
My Armor heathers... - in heaps on the chenets.
Come gorge yourself on fresh air - Here I have breeze
So frank!... that the end of my roof is curling.
The sun is so sweet... - that it freezes all the time.
Spring... - Spring is not your twenty years.
We are just waiting for you, see: already the swallow
Poses... in rusty iron, nailed to my turret. -
And soon we can pick the mushroom...
In my stairs that golden... a light.
In the wall that greens there is a periquid
Dry. - ... And then we will go to the water to do the board
- Dry wrecking boards - like me - on these beaches.
The Sea roos its Lullaby for shipwrecks;
Evening barcarolle... for wild ducks. "
"In Paul and Virginia, and virginals - do you want -
We will put ourselves in the green of the lost paradise...
Or Robinson with Friday – it's easy –
The rain has already made my kingdom an island. "
"If yet, near me, you fear loneliness,
We have friends, without makeup - A poacher;
Not to mention a blue caban that, out of habit,
Always does the hundred steps and contains a customs officer...
No more bailiff clerks! I have the moonlight,
And pierrot friends in love without fortune. "
- "And our nights!... Beautiful nights for the orgy at the tower!...
Romeo nights! - It's never daylight. -
Nature wakes up – wild awakening –
Shaying his white sheet... turned off my fireplace.
Here are my nightingales... hurricane nightingales -
Cheerful as punches - sobs of huants cats!
My weather vane rusts at the top of its zip line
And we hear my wind door moaning,
As in Saint Anthony in his temptation...
Oh come on! Nice support of seduction! "
- "Hop! the rats of the attic dance farandoles!
The slates of the roof roll in castanets!
The Folles-du-logis...
No, I don't have any more Folles! "
... "As I would resell my remains to Satan
If he tempted me with a little Revenant...
- You - I see you everywhere, but like a pale seer,
I love you... And it's poor: love what you love!
Appear, a dagger in the heart! - It will be,
You know, as in Iñès de La Sierra...
- We hit... oh! It's someone...
Alas! Yes, it's a rat. "
- "I dream... and it's always You. On everything,
Like a sly spirit, your memory arises:
My loneliness - You! - My owls with the golden eye:
- You! - My crazy weather vane: Oh You!... - What do I still know...
- You: my shutters opening my arms in the storm...
A distant voice: it's Your song! - it's a party!...
The gusts rummating Your lost name - it's stupid -
It's stupid, but it's you! My heart wide open
Like my pantenne shutters,
Bat, all panicked in the breath
The strangest drafts. "
"Here... a shadow, for a moment, came
Draw your profile on the bare wall,
And I turned my head... - Hope or memory -
My sister Anne, at the tower, don't you see it coming?... "
- Nothing! - I see... I see, in my cold room,
My bed quilted with strowbarrow satin;
And my dog sleeping on it - Poor animal -
... And I laugh... because it hurts me a little. "
"I took, to call you, my old and my lyre.
My heart makes spirit - the fool - to deceive itself...
Come cry, if my verses may have made you laugh;
Come laugh, if they made you cry.... "
"It will be funny... Come play with misery,
According to nature: - A heart with a thatched house. -
... It's raining in my home, it's raining in my heart fire.
Come! My candle is dead and I have no more fire... "
His lamp was dying. He opened the window.
The sun was rising. He looked at his letter,
Laughed and tore her... The small white pieces,
In the fog, seemed like a flight of seagulls.