I had the courage to look backward
The ghosts of my daysMark my way and I mourn them
Some lie moldering in Italian churches
Or in little woods of citron trees
Which flower and bear fruit
At the same time and in every season
Other days wept before dying in taverns
Where ardent odes became jaded
Before the eyes of a mulatto girl who inspired poetry
And the roses of electricity open once more
In the garden of my memory
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Marc Chagall: Le Printemps |
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