Pour chaque vendredi matin

For every Friday morning.

For every Friday morning,
I will hold in my two hands,
A tiny porcelain bell,
Sun ray that is chiming out.

In order to know your sent,
I, in the wakes of your hands
Had usurped some dear gifts,
And had breathed in some mischief.

To hear sweet nothings from you,
I’ll calmly listen by turns,
A single note by your pulse,
That echoes itself around.

To attend your departures,
I wait for the light in stations,
Empty urns like dreams that are
Inadvertently broken.

Just to hear in the mere wind
Never ice-cold nor fervent,
A trace of your andantes,
Will I still stay in the wait?