I hear the beaches there are black

With lava gone to sea

And stretch from the foot of an immense peak smoking

with snow

Under a second sun of wild canaries

This faraway land what is it

Which appears to draw its light out of your life

It quivers quite real at the end of your eyelashes

Sweet on your complexion like an immaterial linen cloth

Fresh emerged from the just-opened bag of the ages

Behind you

Flinging its final somber lights between your legs

The soil of paradise lost

Glass of shadows mirror of love

And lower nigh your arms opening

To springtime’s proof

AFTER

Of the inexistence of evil

The apple tree blooming with seas

André Breton