I want a bedroom near the sky, an astrologer’s lair
Where I can fashion eclogues that are chaste and spare.
Dreaming, I’ll hear the wind in the steeples close by
Snatch the solemn hymns away. I’ll spy
On factories from my attic window, resting my chin
In both hands, drinking in the songs, the din.
I’ll see chimney and steeples, those masts of the city.
And the great skies that make you dream of eternity.

How sweet to watch the birth of the star in the still-blue
Sky, through mist; the lamp burning anew
At the window; river of coal climbing the firmament
And the moon pouring out its pale enchantment.
I’ll see the spring, the summer and the fall
And when winter casts its monotonous pall
Of snow, I’ll draw the blinds and curtains tight
And build my magic palaces in the night;
Then dream of gardens, of bluish horizons,
Of jets of water weeping in alabaster basins.
Of kisses, of birds singing at dawn and at nightfall.
Of all that’s most childish in our pastoral.
When the riot storms my windowpane
I’ll stay hunched at my desk, it will rage in vain.
For I’ll have plunged deep inside the thrill
Of conjuring spring with the force of my will,
Coaxing the sun from my heart, and building here
Out of my fiery thoughts, a tepid atmosphere.

This Issue

April 1, 1982