I move behind the scenes of poetry,
and I blush if I slightly hear it.
But by night the daily bread
is consumed,
and the next dawn
bathes its dregs.
Only the stage of my death,
if in bed!,
with its cleanliness without spillage...
The side on which I sleep
is a diaphanous limit:
there the verses spill out.
That's enough for me. I wake up
before the harvest ripens and Van Gogh's crows
hover in the expanse .
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