Here the book which I promised…
There if you find the dream bottomless of the secular life,
and the priestesses of Bacchus to the figure of pink dancing on the hills under the moon,
And of the Gods who want the heart of Homère still bleeding like Messaline with the eyes of fire, instead of a shroud a tunic of crimson throws on the bodies of the dead knights of love.
There if you find nights of Pompeï,
the grenade of the eruptions matured over the Peak and this century wounded like Jesus,
taken childbirth of a dawn news,If you find hearts extinguished like lamps,
the combat of iron and the man,and,
revealed, the contemptible crime born from the very envieux mud of the blood of the pure pinks, Knows well, my friend, that my song told the pains of the pleasure and the pleasures of the pain the chalice of the heart when it fills up wine sees this one moulting in blood of God.
Think that no one, never,
could not hold of the fist this support of my Pégase whose glance carries a double sun, -
and that the funeral cawing of the corbels could not slice its unbounded dash.
Think that always the critic is one-eyed and that the wise moralist is oenuque. the heavy heart of a life, with the exact balance which will be able to weigh it, vis-a-vis with all the Universe?
Only will be able to enjoy divine food of the Dream,
that which will be enivra of incense, of stinks.
That one only is man that all kneads grace and of abjection, that one only, crowned tears.