Not that he was unsuspected, not less just or truthful

he had often seen deeper than the mirror’s smile,

the whole inexhaustible night and its branches, he had

often seen in the mirror not the face but the skull.

Yet he was still convinced by the fine reflections on the window,

the recuperation of the furniture too, the serene glance of dawn

that had no demands, not any control — he was convinced by

those light marks left by the broom on the floor.

And then, there was a woman who smiled softly, warmly, sweetly,

like the blanket that was spread on the window, warmed up

           by the sun

and he felt the anticipation of sea breeze in his nostrils.