night promises to be long
there we’ll remain alone

or maybe there
we’ll never be lonely

artists of the impossible
we hardly belong to ourselves

our shadows weave the illusion

of our dreams and feed
with slow movements

they shriek across an instant
night’s envelope is torn

they go mad and search about
in their blazing heart

they need to hear once more
silence’s echo turned to stone

(Translated from the French by Peter Thompson)