Born at daybreak in the Ox Head district,
you are breaking through a thousand years,
like the murmur of the waves which calls you
every night from behind the mountains.
In the sewage pipes of your big city
the Mediterranean sea waters
wash away the traces of the love nights,
smelling with the seaweed and the violets.
You have taken ivory and gold,
alabaster, a few shells of the turtles…
poured the gold into the sunny pasta,
boiled the plaster for the walls of Paris.
You have had refined metamorphosis,
changing dresses, shoes, professions, genders;
you were Figaro with silver scissors,
and a drama writing German princess.
You have taught me how to conduct
magic deer, stray trams and drunken boats.
How I would love to be your peacock,
your white peacock, picking diamond seeds.