Joan Miró

Oh predatory sun, imprisoned in my head,

carry away the hill, carry off the forest!

The sky is more beautiful than ever.

The dragonflies of the grapes

give it precise forms

which I scatter with a sweep of my hand.

Clouds of the first day,

insensitive clouds, authorized by nothing...

their seeds are burning

in the sudden fires of my gaze.

In the end, in order to clothe itself with dawn,

the sky will have to be as pure as night.