This evening the Moon dreams with more laziness
As a beauty on many cushions
Who with a discreet and light hand caresses
Before falling asleep the contour of her breasts
On the satin back, soft avalanches
Dying she indulges in long swoons
And wanders her eyes over the white visions
Which rise in the azure like blooms
When sometimes on this globe in its idle length
She lets slip a furtive tear
A pious poet enemy of sleep
In the hollow of his hand takes this pale tear
With urize reflections like a fragment of opal
And bring it with its body far from the eyes of the Sun

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