Among many poems
There was one
Which I couldn't remember
Except having made it up
Long ago
While going down that street
On the even-numbered side of that street
Bathed in a limpid morning
A street of little shops still lasting
Between the hospital and the wounded Seine
A poem written with my feet
As I always make up my poems
In silence and in my head while walking
But I remember nothing
Except the street the light and the chance
That had caused the entry in the poem
Of the word 'respect'
That I don't usually set resounding
In poetry's mental pages
Beyond it there is nothing
And this word this unmoving word
Awaits the ending of the street
Like a tree space has forgotten

TRANSLATED BY MARY ANN CAWS