Marc Chagall

An ass or a cow, a rooster or a horse,

even the skin of a violin,

a man singing, a single bird,

an agile dancer with his wife,

a couple soaked in their springtime.

Golden grass and leaden sky

separated by the blue flames

of health and of dew.

Blood grows iridescent, hearts are ringing.

A couple, the first reflection.

And in a tunnel of snow

the abundant vine sketches

a moon-lipped face

that has never slept all night.