The pale morning of September
in Boulevard de Ménilmontant
down as
over the gates
a final yield
off the wall,
lit the sacred fire
no past, no future
man among the trees
the bare ground
all-encompassing
in his song of darkness
leaves smell of leaves
his tenderness
the Mother of the dark
tears of joy,
tears of weeping
cry for the empty
vacuum of atonement.
Between Love and Hate,
between life and death,
between heaven and earth
run our wire
face caught the last sacrifice .
