I’d dreamed of love. But love is not the same Lilac or rose in a bouquet whose breath Perfumed the forestland where a prone flame Lay at the end of each unbending path. I’d dreamed of love. But love is not the same Storm whose white vein came down and put a blaze On battlements, turned trails, left wanderers lame, Or flared and fled the parting of the ways. It is the flint struck at my heel at night. It is the word beyond what we define. It is the foam, the wave, a cloud in the sky. With age all things turn rigid and grow bright, The streets fall nameless and the knots untie. I strengthen with this landscape and combine. From the French of Robert Desnos.