Conduct

Pass.

The sidereal spade

there of old is engulfed.

Tonight a bird village

lofty exults and passes.

Hearken at the rocky temples

of dispersed presences

the word that will make your sleep

warm as a tree in September.

Behold stirring the interlace

of certitudes arrived

near to us at their quintessence,

o my Fork, my anxious Thirst!

The rigor of living grows inured

without pause to coveting exile.

In a fine almond rain,

mixed with docile liberty,

your guardian spirit is produced,

o Most-loved!

René Char