The singing violin
has not burnt the wind
when a procession of raw bones
snows wildly upon us
A hesitant love
pours nothing over our labours
but an icy shower of gold
gnawing away
the last warm sigh
anonymously
And as always
the earth more ardently
wishing us at rest
within her milkless sides
will lap us with humus.
And if this harp cannot follow me
there where the spirits wait
This is my testament:
I leave you the fire and the song.
From L’Arc musical (1970)
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