Tradition of the meteor

Hope that I try

The fall drinks me.

Where the prairies cry

I am, not really.

The stars lie

To the me-inventing sky

No other than me

That way comes to be,

Save the nightbird

With tracer-wings nigh.

Pale flesh offered

On a bed narrowly.

Sour flesh haggard,

Subterranean go sink.

At the window regard

Where your fever beats,

O voluntary heart,

Runner repelling!

On the ice increasing,

You are immortal.

René Char