Clock BY PIERRE REVERDY TRANSLATED BY LYDIA DAVIS

In the warm air of the ceiling the footlights of dreams are illuminated. The white walls have curved. The burdened chest breathes confused words. In the mirror, the wind from the south spins, carrying leaves and feathers. The window is blocked. The heart is almost extinguished among the already cold ashes of the moonthe hands are without shelteras all the trees lying down. In the wind from the desert the needles bend and my hour is past.