During the warm season you dance at the foot of the trees in the sacred forest. Sometimes you pressed against the trunk and circled it in your arms. Your dress, too, was made of leaves and flowers. So that laying down in the grass you seemed naked.
I was the one who, standing, stretched his shadow across your nakedness.

Last night I had a strange dream. At the top of a tall pylon, with radar and antennae sticking out all over, you lay yourself bare among the brambles and the entire sky suddenly abandons its stars to concentrate its sparkle on your naked skin and to then communicate the gods' instructions to all mortals. Anachronistic was this dream, but who would believe the earth where we walk, this blue globe you're holding in your hands, is turning.

Translated from the French by Dawn Cornelio