by Léon-Paul Fargue
In vain the sea makes the voyage
From the far horizon to kiss your feet so sage.
You draw them back
Always in time.
You are silent, I say nothing.
Perhaps we no longer think of it.
But the flashlights of the fireflies
Are coming closer. They wink
Just to illuminate
The tear in your calm eyes
That I one day was obliged to drink.
The sea has enough salt in it.
A blond and blue medusa
That wants to learn by being sad
Crosses the moving floors of the sea,
Neat and clear as an elevator,
And removes its lamp on the surface
To see you drawing in the sand
With your umbrella, crying,
Three cases of triangles being equal.





