We are the birds always charmed by you from the top of these belvederes 
And that each night form a blossoming branch between your shoulders and the arms of your well beloved wheelbarrow 
Which we tear out swifter than sparks at your wrist 
We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleeps
And shining holes appear in his bed
Holes through which stags with coral antlers can be seen in a glade 
And naked women at the bottom of a mine 
You remembered then you got up you got out of the train 
Without glancing at the locomotive attacked by immense barometric roots
Complaining about its murdered boilers in the virgin forest 
Its funnels smoking jacinths and moulting blue snakes 
Then we went on, plants subject to metamorphosis 
Each night making signs that man may understand 
While his house collapses and he stands amazed before the singular packing-cases
Sought after by his bed with the corridor and the staircase 
The staircase goes on without end
It leads to a millstone door it enlarges suddenly in a public square 
It is made of the backs of swans with a spreading wing for banisters 
It turns inside out as though it were going to bite itself 
But no, it is content at the sound of our feet to open all its steps like drawers 
Drawers of bread drawers of wine drawers of soap drawers of ice drawers of stairs
Drawers of flesh with handsfull of hair 
Without turning round you seized the trowel with which breasts are made
We smiled at you you held us round the waist
And we took the positions of your pleasure
Motionless under our lids for ever as woman delights to see man
After having made love.