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| Here I am in the twenty-ninth year of my life With many empty bottles behind me A never closed tab on the eternal slate Which hides as best it can the poverty Of the foliage roof invested like a posthumous child Ah! It’s truly me! I have not changed costumes And the printed calico curtain that terrified me With its flames and disheveled roses Flies again over today’s old world And here I am in the twenty-ninth year of my life Now it’s no longer exactly like in bygone days When I lived among good savages Whose grammar mistakes were sweet like a dialect But the time to love ferociously and hardily Bound in its hope to seeds in the wind Which sniff the thick soil where the saps and salt of a prodigious spring are condensing. |
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