The frog
Of the barrel game
Grows weary at evening, beneath the arbor...
She has had enough!
Of being the statue
Who is about to [hurl into the silence]1 a great word: The Word!

She would love to be with the others
Who make music bubbles
With the soap of the moon
Beside the lustrous bronze tub
That one sees there, shining between the branches...

At midday one hurls at her
A feast of discs
That pass through without benefit to her

And will resound
In the chambers
Of her numbered pedestal!

And at night, the insects go to sleep
In her mouth...

But she is riveted to her column,
Open to love, open to the dentist's forceps,
Towards the moon that suffers, at the turn of the path,
An overdose of thermogenic cotton...

In the distance a scatterbrain seeks something
  That he lost in the reeds
And awakens at the bottom of the pond
  The black beetle in its water tower ...

My sad childhood, on the lookout for diversions,
  At evening went to see you gaping,
  Ready to listen to you, at the edge of your tears,
Gobbler of cloudy skies, and of blame,
  Like me, poet, in my orchard ...