Saturday, 16 August 2014


I once flew past it in a mailcoach

Insofar as he had anything to do with it,
It consisted of days of pleasure and revenge.
But for you, visteur du soir, rising

From your bed and working in the evening,
Being dangerous, and bound upon the day,
This is the cool hour.
                                      He, looking up

At the sky, imperishable and starry,
Getting wider until daybreak, when
Nobody is to blame,
                                  (for the man who listens

Closely sees this form in that form:
Still, considers he might be quite
Wrong after all), he cannot assume

This here. Nor can he capture that 
Dreadful predicate: the blueness of the sky.