Evening

Sunday on the city, Sunday in our hearts! Sunday among the little girls

singing with untrained voices their stubborn rounds where good turns only

last a few days! Sunday, the stations are mad! Everyone heads off for the

suburbs of adventure, waving a frenzied farewell! Sunday trains are fast,

devoured by insatiable tunnels, and the good signal lights with their single

eyes exchange mechanical impressions. Sunday, in the blue of my dreams where

my sad thoughts of missed fireworks do not want to leave off mourning for

deceased Sundays. The night, with velvet steps, comes to lull the lovely,

tired sky to sleep, and it's Sunday among the avenues of stars. The Virgin,

gold on silver, scatters the flowers of sleep. Swiftly, little angels, pass

the swallows and go to bed, strong in your absolution! Take pity on the

cities, take pity on our hearts, oh Virgin, gold on silver.