The rain was falling on the stoop. I danced a waltz with the night.
My cleavage reflected the sun’s agonized sighs.
And in this cabaret’s ill-famed street of Templars
I ordered a cognac the hours began to turn
Like planes driven mad by speed
I was afraid that the day would reopen its glittering curtains
I clutched my paper cutter. Blood beaded on my hand
The hotel room scent a rancid cologne
I ran down the stairs to the nearest station
And in a monologue of reinforced concrete
The buildings greeted my departure on the open platform
This life is a novel but are we its heroes?
The fuselage of days is that of a military plane,
With its impatient will to pierce the April clouds ;
And tears the screen of smoke;
This poem has no epilogue, my words are only two train tickets
At each step, the wagons fly away to the scaffold of the night hours
I scribbled on the train table, I’ll write a masterpiece tomorrow
This train has no crew other than words (…)