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