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Green gloves rustle
On the avenue's branches

The evening carries us under its arm
By a path which leaves no trace

The rain falls on its knees
Before the fugitive windows

The yards come out of their gates
And stand looking after us


Trans. by Anne Pennington


Anonymous submission.

Added: 2 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 1:41 AM | Viewed: 1751 times

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