Parchment love

When windows like the jackal’s eye and desire pierce the dawn, silk windlasses hoist me onto the gangways of the outskirts. I call a girl who dreams in the gilded maisonette, she rejoins me on the heap of black moss and offers me her lips which are stones at the bottom of the rapid river. Veiled forebodings come down the steps of the edifices. The best thing is to flee the large feather cylinders when the hunters limp through sodden grounds. If one takes a bath in the moire of the streets, childhood returns to the land, a greyhound bitch. Man seeks his prey in the air and fruits dry on the grids of pink paper, in the shadow of names unmeasured by oblivion. Joys and pains pour out in the town. Gold and eucalyptus, with the same scent, attack dreams. Amid the brakes and the dark edelweiss repose underground shapes like perfumers’ corks.

André Breton