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Sometimes I go to Honfleur,
I walk its coble stones and forest roads,
there is a lot of French noise:
wine clinking, chanson and laughter,
and in front of my eyes there pass yachts,
purples trees,
yellow fields with noir crows,
shells, fossils, madeleines,
but I see only your face,
with your olive eyes
instead of Proust’s
in front of mine.
Sometime it seems that I will melt till the end
and I will not be able to come back to Earth,
even in the body of snow or rain,
that I will drown deep in your hair
and never wake up.
Sometimes I sit in Honfleur,
I see people laugh and talk,
but I hear only your olive voice
dripping over the coble stones,
filling the forest roads,
resonating between purple trees,
moving Marcels’s lips
in the vitrines
left in marks of my palms
trying to catch your
olive eyes…