To say good-by.
To say farewell.
But the place was too blue.
But the place was too green.
The father was a lightning bolt.
The mother a chimera.
The two children a pair of birds.
Was it a head of air?
Was it a mountain of wishes?
Was it three knots knotted?
On three flamingo necks?
But a doll of light baffled me.
Never would a doll, a bird, a hand
draw me away from or bring me near
to Chauvigny.
I wanted to leave,
I didn't want to see anything else.
I stuck out my tongue.
I hid in the slopes.
I hid in the folds
of an overly white sky.
Perhaps a winged doll
might expose me.

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