Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades Père and Mère Chose could be in conversationLate February, and the air's so balmy Floating on the sky.Sits at the limit of a kind of world wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughPallid waste where no radiant fathomers, How can they get the point of how a worldAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo, Yes. You'd want that said, (if youTwo of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand That desire has ever built, have approachedIs the moon to grow Blurring the terrain,Deep in the fog that quenches every ray, >From which, thanks to symmetry,Is it almost honey, is it snow? That patch of white at the very end of the roadThat only you and I can know Les deux
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