You would always dream of winged stars, of flowers cajoling flowers on the lips of infinity, of light-sources blossoming out, of symmetrical bloomings, of breathing silks, of serene sciences, far from the houses of a thousand darts and the prostrations of naïve deserts, among a thousand untidy miracles. You dreamed of things that rest in the immutable home of light. You painted an unveiled rose, a bouquet of waves, a live crystal. You painted the shells that you gathered on the beach and arranged them on the drawing table around a large shell like a flock around its shepherd. You painted a teardrop in the dew, a teardrop among pearls. You painted the radiance that makes the heart beat, the gentleness that makes lips stir. You painted the night that hangs out the stars, the bright sleep, the own sweet will of flowers. You danced the dawn that spilled over the earth. You danced the trembling garden of daybreak. You danced in the quilted landscape of the moon with the mischievous gnomes of darkness. You danced the nude who loses his toy of air, the pleasure that sobs dispossessed. You danced the six vermilion armchairs and were wiser than the brains of six philosophers, the ivory scaffold darkening in the lava of gloom, the laughter of the dust, the southern night and its cricket chirpings. You danced farewell.
