Anne. Anne

ANNE

Anne who is mingled with the pale discarded sheet Sleepy hair drawn across not properly open eyes Mirroring her distant arms turning with indolence On the colourless skin of a stomach exposed.

She empties, she fills her breast slowly with shadow, And like a memory of her own insistent flesh, A mouth exhausted and full of fiery water Rolls with an immense taste the reflection of the seas.

At the finish helpless and released to be cool, The sleeping girl abandons the clusters of colour Afloat on her pallid bed, and with a dry lip, Sucks upon the darkness a bitter breath of flowers.

And on the linen where the insensate dawn is creased, Falls, from an icy arm lightly touched with crimson, A whole dishevelled hand which has lost a delight Between its bare fingers resolved into the human.

O random! Forever, in the sleep without men Pure of the sad strokes which are their embraces, She lets loosely tumble the clusters and the apples So powerful, that hang from the trellis of bones,

Which laugh, in their amber appeal for the harvest, And whose golden number and richness of movement Invoke with their vigour and strangeness of gesture What the lovers invent for the killing of love ... À André Lebey.

Upon you, when the glance of their souls is misled, Their heart overwhelmed changes much as their voices, For the tender foreplay of their barbarous feast Brings out the dogs in heat which shudder in these kings ...

Only just do roving fingers lightly touch your life, All their blood is overcome as by a heavy sea, And some violence of delighted abysses Hurl these white swimmers onto the rocks of your flesh ...

Coral reefs delicious, Island only too near, Tender land, promise of the appeasing demons, Love reaches you, armed with the glances of hatred, To combat in the shadow a hydra of kisses!

Ah, more naked and with the coming dawn imbued, If that sad gold examines a lukewarm contour, Return to the shade of unconscious Self more pure, And you make a vain marble rough-hewn by the day!

Let a pale ray of sunlight your lip violate Biting into a smile every seed of their tears, Mask of a soul in sleep forever sacrificed Upon which a sudden peace surprises the sorrow!

Nevermore gild again your satin-smooth shadows, The ancient with fiery fingers who cleaves the shutters Will not come to tear you from the lazy mornings And return to the mild sun your joyous bracelets ...

But soft, the tree there that is just outside, the palm Sway its vaporous branches beyond any remorse, And in the brightness, through a few leaves, the calm bird Commences the only song which suppresses the dead.