I had dreamed of loving. I go on loving but love is no longer the bouquet of lilacs and roses imbuing with their fragrances a forest where a flame lies at rest at the end of undeviating pathways.
I had dreamed of loving. I go on loving but love is no longer a storm whose lightening lays its funeral pyres on castles, disorientates, distorts, illuminates as it vanishes the parting of the ways.
It is the spark of flint beneath my footstep in the night, the word no dictionary in the worldhas translated, the foam on the sea, the cloud in the sky.
In growing old all things become rigid and luminous, boulevards without names and ropes without knots. I feel myself stiffening with the landscape.
Robert Desnos – (Landscape)