BY ANDRÉ BRETON
The traveler who crossed Les Halles at summer’s end Walked on tiptoeDespair rolled its great handsome lilies across the sky And in her handbag was my dream that flask of salts That only God’s godmother had breathedTorpors unfurled like mistAt the Chien qui FumeWhere pro and con had just enteredThey could hardly see the young woman and then only at an angle Was I dealing with the ambassadress of saltpeter Or with the white curve on black background we call thought The Innocents’ Ball was in full swingThe Chinese lanterns slowly caught fire in chestnut trees The shadowless lady knelt on the Pont-au-Change On Rue Gît-le-Coeur the stamps had changed The night’s promises had been kept at lastThe carrier pigeons and emergency kissesMerged with the beautiful stranger’s breastsJutting beneath the crepe of perfect meanings A farm prospered in the heart of ParisAnd its windows looked out on the Milky Way But no one lived there yet because of the guestsGuests who are known to be more faithful than ghosts Some like that woman appear to be swimming And a bit of their substance becomes part of love She internalizes themI am the plaything of no sensory powerAnd yet the cricket who sang in hair of ash One evening near the statue of Etienne Marcel Threw me a knowing glanceAndre Breton it said passTRANSLATED BY MARK POLIZZOTTIFonte: Poetry Foundation
The traveler who crossed Les Halles at summer’s end
Walked on tiptoe
Despair rolled its great handsome lilies across the sky
And in her handbag was my dream that flask of salts
That only God’s godmother had breathed
Torpors unfurled like mist
At the Chien qui Fume
Where pro and con had just entered
They could hardly see the young woman and then only at an angle
Was I dealing with the ambassadress of saltpeter
Or with the white curve on black background we call thought
The Innocents’ Ball was in full swing
The Chinese lanterns slowly caught fire in chestnut trees
The shadowless lady knelt on the Pont-au-Change
On Rue Gît-le-Coeur the stamps had changed
The night’s promises had been kept at last
The carrier pigeons and emergency kisses
Merged with the beautiful stranger’s breasts
Jutting beneath the crepe of perfect meanings
A farm prospered in the heart of Paris
And its windows looked out on the Milky Way
But no one lived there yet because of the guests
Guests who are known to be more faithful than ghosts
Some like that woman appear to be swimming
And a bit of their substance becomes part of love
She internalizes them
I am the plaything of no sensory power
And yet the cricket who sang in hair of ash
One evening near the statue of Etienne Marcel
Threw me a knowing glance
Andre Breton it said pass
TRANSLATED BY MARK POLIZZOTTI
Fonte: Poetry Foundation
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