An overcast morning in July. A taste of ashes flies through the air; - an odor of sweating wood on the hearth, - dew-ret flowers, - devastation along the promenades, - the mist of the canals over the fields - why not incense and toys already?
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I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
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The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?
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While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.
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Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! my queens!
