The cemetery

Here shall be my grave, and not elsewhere, under those three

trees.

I would gather thence the earliest leaves of spring

Between a granite plinth and a marble column.

I would gather thence the earliest leaves of spring,

But other leaves shall batten on the happy rottenness

Of this body that shall live, if it may, a hundred thousand years.

But other leaves shall batten on the happy rottenness,

But other leaves shall darken

Beneath the pen of those who tell their adventures.

But other leaves shall darken

With an ink more liquid than blood and water of fountains:

Testaments not observed, words lost over the mountains.

Can I defend my memory against oblivion

Like a cuttlefish that flees losing blood, losing breath?

Can I defend my memory against oblivion?

Robert Desnos