Little ragamuffin, brat, a craving for Sen-Sen
as we walked along the Académie;
it is all that interests you.
I remain quiet and my manner annoys you;
I’m present and unaccounted for.
The tunnels are not crowded in this part of the city.

Finally I say like dogs, possible dogs, worn thin.

We’re in the wrong place, our favorite season.
Ill luck has surfaced again and you do as you please.
I hang on to you around the corner.
There is something lacking even now.
Come, whitewash my fasting worth.

Something living touched me; a plant?
You pretend to recognize old friends.
Why this embarrassed despair, this recoiling?
City of Love—I can’t breathe.

Our on God gave us, gave us the bird.

Goodbye.