Nos élans nous poussent
Dans les artifices
Les formes nouvelles
Nos héros sont morts
Leurs corps à moitié nus
Se suspendent
Nos pâleurs se joignent
Aux bords des précipices
Les formes se mêlent
À l'intérieur de nos corps
Nous voyons des nus
Se répandre
Là-haut tu flambes
Ô Lord
Au dessus des cartes et des hordes
Là-haut tu baignes
Ô Lord
Dans ce lait saumâtre tu t'endors
Nos élans nous brûlent
Nos chaires se détendent
Nous atteignons le vide
Cette chose nous encercle
Nous sommes désormais
Les esclaves de nos désirs
La sagesse du Lord
Ne nous approche plus
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