She listens to the flowers growing
Surrounded by the noise of traffic
With rainwater
And the perfume of incense
She travels from time to time
She has never heard anything
Of the dogs barking in the street
She makes golden bread
Everyday at four o’clock
She leads her life in colour
She collects
The perfumes of autumn
And twigs of dead wood
When winter arrives
She closes her books
And then gently
She goes to sleep on woollen carpets
Surrounded by Indian dolls
On the downy wings
Of her two white pigeons
Until the first days of spring
She says she’s going to make
A trip around the world
And that she will be back in time for dinner
But fragile moments
And useless words
She knows all about those
When she listens to the flowers growing
Surrounded by the noise of traffic
When the others lose their temper
When I manage to run away
It’s to hers that I go to sleep
And it’s true that I’m afraid to give her a child…