In the mist where glasses of water clatter against each other,
where snakes come looking for milk,
a monument of wool and silk disappears.
It is there that,
on the last night,
bringing their weakness,
all the women came in.
The world wasn't made for their ceaseless walking around,
their langorous gait,
their search for love.
Great country of bronze of the Belle Epoque,
along your paths in their gentle slope, disquiet has deserted.
We'll have to do without gestures sweeter than smell,
eyes brighter than power,
there will be cries, tears, swearing,
and the gnashing of teeth.
The men who lie down will no longer be any more
than the fathers of forgetting.
At their feet despair will have the lovely aspect
of victories with no tomorrow,
haloes we put on under the beautiful blue sky.
One day, they will be tired of it,
one day they will be angry, needles of fire,
masks of pitch and of mustard and women will rise,
with dangerous hands, with eyes of perdition,
with a devastated body, radiant in every movement.
And, the sun will flower once more,
like the mimosa.
