It was coming on five o’clock in the morning

The steam craft tugged its chain fit to burst its panes

And outside

A glow-worm

Raised like a leaf Paris

It was naught but a sustained quaking cry

A cry come from the Maternity home nearby

FINISHED FOOLISH FOUNDRYMAN

But all that passed of joy in the exhalation of that pain

It seemed to me that I was long since fallen

I still had my hand clutched around a fistful of grass

And suddenly this crumpling of flowers and icicles

Those green eyelashes this shooting star pendulum

From what depths could well have remounted the bell

Hermetic

Of which nothing the previous evening gave hint of the

stop on this landing

The bell in the confines of what

Ondine

All the while shaking to raise you the pedal of the sagittary

like a spearhead

You had graven unfailing signs

Of my enchantment

By means of a dirk whose coral heft split in two infinitely

So that your blood and mine

Made one

André Breton