Description

LONG SELF-PRINTED POEM entitled Rose Domblon.

Forty-three verses on two numbered pages embellished with two stars:

Rose Domblon

Little girl with cat moustache,
Little girl with grey moustache,
Who listen unceasingly and submissively
Your petticoats white enough to please the soldiers, 

This pain collar may be just right for you;

While a huge monkey digs your chimney,
Feeling the emptiness of the years weighing on you,
Grave as a child on his iron throne,
You may be thinking about winter
How sweet it is to have a master. 

Mute wind of pain, in my lonely heart

Will you sink your roots deep enough?
Roads gorged with evening crushed monarchs
Under cascades of blood on the edge of precipices
Go to sleep as a child without a thought of harm;
Thunder in the wide curls of autumn
More miraculous than a blind man's violin,
What are niggers waiting for to stroke their beards?
Listening to the harps moan in the evening?

Long wrinkled dragon hair with golden braids
Language, House of God, which makes us adore you
So many ants, sun, on your iron disc.
Days after days and it's still the sea.

Does your fairy hair fear sabre-rattling?
A submissive child with a heart numbed by winter,
Your calm gentleness keeps her breasts in marble
Slowly wearing away the thin green bodice ;

Long night present of blood eternal torments
Watching over a frightened sky
What good will our role as sentinels do us?
And all your future sadder than your past?

Have you known fear and hunger and fever
And the detached fruit of the one with a hundred eyes?
Ocean, when your silent oarsmen were dying,
Have you cried out in the evening for someone to finish you off?

Running with blood between the hot grasses
White heart beating with fear in the livid morning
- Where do you dream of a river forever widened
A river always ready to love and suffer?

My love my love my lost home
How can I believe in such clear love?
To walk by the water is to sleep, you used to say.
Alas, I've never known how to please.

This autograph manuscript without erasures was probably written for mailing, as can be seen from the traces of an envelope-sized fold.

This poem, which does not appear in the Oeuvres poétiques complètes pléiade 1999, appears to be unpublished.