Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowBlurring the terrain,Sits at the limit of a kind of worldSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesThe face of a Quos ego),To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Pèreon their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsStill has to be intoned, as in a lonelyReshaping magnified, each risen flakesnoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsThe paths of childhood.Are muffled into silence that refusesAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazePartly stone, partly the absence of stone,Snow haze gleams like sand.Blurring the terrain,
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