Montmartre

Half not here
And not there yet
Partly absorbed
By the splendid ritornello

Already gone
With the magnificent 
Mute horses
Staring into
Infinity
Their eyes filled 
With a silent madness

Screaming 
Their black and white
Motionless song
Upon the wide sea
Of the crowd

Their breathless galop
Lying in wait
Stopped by the incomprehensible
Wound

One more ride
Another one
As the purple and greyish sky
and its night-shiver
Slowly wraps up 
Everything
Into its coat of dusk
Pointing
Eminently
Toward the murmure
Of the night