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Fragile and tremblingunder the early breezethe first leaf.

The soft foliagedoes not dissimulate the nestof the last year.

The singing of the finchunravels the winter -last shreds.

Ah ! nos soupirs –m’a déjà offert son cœurme donne son corps. Ah ! our sighs -has already offered me her heartgives me her body.

Only enough snowto write their names- two lovers.

  Poet of the streetsbetween two glasseshe declaims it others.   ( Sorry but the english translation can not express the french pun :the drinking glasses = les verresthe verses of a poem = les vers )

On its copper-coloured skinin the winter of my lifemy diaphanous hands.

At the purple dawn the wreathes of the coffee -misted windows.

March catches a cold -to dream about palm treesand turquoise blue sea.