Autumn Night

THE MOON is as complacent as a frog.

She sits in the sky like a blind white stone,

And does not even see Love

As she caresses his face

With her contemptuous light.

She reaches her long white shivering fingers into the bowels of men.

Her tender superfluous probing into all that pollutes

Is like the immodesty of the mad.

She is a mad woman holding up her dress

So that her white belly shines.

Haughty,

Impregnable,

Ridiculous,

Silent and white as a debauched queen,

Her ecstasy is that of a cold and sensual child.

She is Death enjoying Life,

Innocently,

Lasciviously.