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Sunday, March 11 2007
Love that I feel, the love who cook me, It is not the pure and platonic love, Sorbet with snow with a biscuit; It is the love of flesh, it is a tonic dish. It is not the love of the cableways pâlots Whose dream floats with the sky of the prints. It is the love which laughs among sobs And with thick blows the anvil of the temples strikes. It is the extreme love like a Greek fire. It is the wild love and the solid love. Especially it is not the love of the middle-class men. Love of middle-class man, garden of invalid. It is not either the love of novel, Forgery, pretentious, with a glose Of if, of why, of but, of how. It is the very simple love and not another thing. It is the alive love. It is the human love. I will be sincere and you will be insane, My heart on your heart, my hand in your hand. And that is better than their nonsense! It is the powerful love. It is the vermilion love. I will be the flood, you will be the dune. You will be the ground, and me the sun. And that is better than their moonlight!
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