and on earth this evening there's a man who's writing
near a candle
with a Watermann fountain pen
He thinks about gray birds
about slow waltzes that are actually gray birds
he thinks about countries he doesn't know
as you'd think about your sleeping dog
He knows lots of things that have no name
on earth and in the heavens
whence the big vessels fly away
The trees reclaim the silence and rain
There's a man who's writing near a candle
near a sleeping dog
and he thinks about the moon
and he thinks about the Good Lord
There are also these butterflies small ads for paradise
house of the angels decked out nicely
owner of elegant walking-sticks
and big cars simple supple silent
The angels are the sort of friends
you can ask advice about picking out a tie
the kind who answer sadly
Pick the one that matches the color of your eyes
The angels disappear in the candles' flames
and there's nothing anymore only the trees
and naturally the animals you've forgotten about
that hide themselves
The good guys know that silence is compulsory
at that hour of the courageous night
at that hour when prayers come down
and songs too down cotton ladders
That's the hour when you also see eyes
that don't want to go out
immobile as seraphim
Angels of Paris lend me your wings
lend me your fingers
lend me your hands
Do I have to keep on sleeping such a long time
that my head's heavier than a sin
Do I have to die without a cry
in the silence that reclaims the trees
near a candle
near a sleeping dog