Those devouring suns in the soul.

But the evening when, light, singing, limpid and musical, I spread roses over our couch, my lover and I became as somber as a night of expiation and we only sighed and remained silent in the flowers.

The universal harmony has welcomed me and enrolled me.

Poets, you have solidarity, and some-times, miraculously, the sigh that trembles on the lip of one of you suffices to provoke a tempest in the breast of another. The tears that you think vain irrigate celestially the meadow of one of your brethren, and you do not know the extent to which he owes its flowering to you, to you who have wept.

It is impossible that those living on lyricism feel that they bear their future decomposition within them, and drag their skeleton like an eyeless witness looking into the void. That is not true! Our tombs, poets, we shall cover with roses and decorate with a veiled urn, but we will not admit it, and we will always see our coffins rising up, in order to launch them into the chaos of chaos on our shoulders full of stars.

A rhythmic, subtle song sates the space, swells, sways, and soaks the night in sorrow as if a lone violin were delving deep into dark, secret yearnings transforming fiery torment into tone while touching here and there a homeless heart, which found no words for its deep longings.