It was forbidden to play the flute at night,
to walk along the canal while the leaves were falling.
Every child knows that which is forbidden holds
golden secrets of transformation. So we fall into the well.
Whatever preoccupies the heart owes explanations
to no one. We step on crooked stones. Resonant notes fall
and rise in our imaginations. I seem to see things best
in frigid air with snow whipping around me.
Every day I learn to do things smoother and better,
though at poker I am too transparent, queens falling
from my hand. Even death has lost its terror for me, dropped
like a fallen angel, all fire and smoke with nothing inside
.
Al Fournier
.