Route
Her voice roosts in my memory.
My body rocks my thoughts to sleep.
The telegraph wires vanish in the distance.
Pebbles collide, sound the stroke of noon.
Life-Saving Medal
My nose cuts the air,
my eyes are red from laughing.
At night, I gather milk and moonlight
and run without turning back.
If the trees behind me get frightened,
I don’t give a damn.
It is great to be indifferent
in the middle of the night
where all these people go,
the pride of the cities,
the village musicians.
The crowd is dancing, furiously,
and I am just this anonymous passer-by
or somebody whose name I can’t remember.
Phillipe Soupault (1897-1990)