Someone just died but I'm still alive and yet I don't have a soul anymore. All I have left is a transparent body inside of which transparent doves hurl themselves on a transparent dagger held by a transparent hand. I see struggle in all its beauty, real struggle which nothing can measure, just before the last star comes out. The rented body I live in like a hut detests the soul I had which floats in the distance. It's time to put an end to that famous dualism for which I've been so much reproached. Gone are the days when eyes without light and rings drew sediment from pools of color. There's neither red nor blue anymore. Unanimous red-blue fades away in turn like a robin redbreast in the hedges of inattention. Someone just died,—not you or I or they exactly, but all of us, except me who survives by a variety of means: I'm still cold for example. That's enough. A match! A match! Or how about some rocks so I can split them, or some birds so I can follow them, or some corsets so I can tighten them around dead women's waists, so they'll come back to life and love me, with their exhausting hair, their disheveled glances! A match, so no one dies for brandied plums, a match so the Italian straw hat can be more than a play! Hey, lawn! Hey, rain! I'm the unreal breath of this garden. The black crown resting on my head is a cry of migrating crows because up till now there have only been those who were buried alive, and only a few of them, and here I am the first aerated dead man. But I have a body so I can stop doing myself in, so I can force reptiles to admire me. Bloody hands, misteltoe eyes, a mouth of dried leaves and glass (the dried leaves move under the glass; they're not as red as one would think, when indifference exposes its voracious methods), hands to gather you, miniscule thyme of my dreams, rosemary of my extreme pallor. I don't have a shadow anymore, either. Ah my shadow, my dear shadow. I should write a long letter to the shadow I lost. I'd begin it My Dear Shadow. Shadow, my darling. You see. There's no more sun. There's only one tropic left out of two. There's only one man left in a thousand. There's only one woman left in the absence of thought that characterizes in pure black this cursed era. That woman holds a bouquet of everlastings shaped like my blood.
André Breton - 1896-1966
It Was Going on Five in the Morning
It was going on five in the morning The ship of steam stretched its chain to shatter the windows And outside A glowworm Lifted Paris like a leaf It was only a long trembling scream A scream from the Maternity Hospital nearby FINIS FOUNDRY FANATIC But whatever joy escaped in the exhalation of that pain It seems to me that I was falling for a long time I still had my fist clenched around a handful of grass And suddenly that rustle of flowers and needles of ice Those green eyebrows that shooting-star pendulum From what depths was the bell actually able to rise again The hermetic bell Which nothing last night made me foresee would stop on this landing The bell whose sides read Undine Moving to raise your spearheaded Sagittarius pedal You had carved the infallible signs Of my enchantment With a dagger whose coral handle forks into infinity So that your blood and mine Would become one