World

In the salon of Madame des Ricochets

The mirrors are in pressed beads of dew

The console table is made of an arm in ivy

And the carpet dies like waves

In the salon of Madame des Ricochets

The moon tea is served in nightjar eggs

The curtains initiate snowmelt

And the piano nearly turned away sinks all

in one piece into nacre

In the salon of Madame des Ricochets

Low lamps under aspen leaves

Tickle the chimney with pangolin scales

When Madame des Ricochets rings

The doors crack to let pass maids on swings

André Breton