AN ANGEL

I innocently recall
the distant bells
of Saint-Benoît-le-Bétourné.
and quickly end my prayer
invoking Guillaume de Villon’ s bald pate.
I drink alchohol most naturally.
This is the secret to become an angel.
With cool, mild looks,
never troubling people, never stealing,
kind and relaxed,
I drink down to the dregs,
till I grow sleepy and fall asleep.

You see, my friend,
this is what makes of François Villon
an angel.
I shiver in the cold, choke on my bleeding nose,
and am wakened by my wound.
And then a wolf eats the wind and runs off.
Because I fear midnight darkness,
I spread my wings forcefully
and secretly soar back to my nest
through the black sky.
The moon and a tiger; the moon and an angel.
I am a tiger, I am an angel.

AN ANGEL