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Devil Festival
The last droplet of wine flares up at the bottom of the glass in which just
a moment ago had appeared a chateau.
The gnarled trees beside the road bend down toward the traveler.
He comes from the neighboring town,
He comes from the distant city,
He sweeps on past all the churches in town.
Through one window he sees a moving red star,
Which comes down, which walks on flickering
Down the white road running through the black countryside.
She goes straight toward the traveler who watches her coming.
For one moment she shines in each of his eyes,
Then sticks to his forehead.
Amazed by this icy but intensifying radiance
He wipes his forehead.
A droplet of wine forms a bead upon his finger.
Now the man draws off and swindles into evening.
He has swept on past the spring where you come in the morning to gather
fresh watercress,
He has swept on past the old abandoned farmhouse.
He is the man with the drop of wine on his forehead.
At this very moment he dances in an enormous hall,
A brilliantly lit room,
Magnificent with its waxed parquet floor,
Deep as any mirror.
He is alone with his dancing partner
In this enormous hall, and he dances
To the strains of an orchestra of glassware broken underfoot.
And all the night creatures
State at this solitary dancing couple
And the most beautiful of all the night creatures
Mechanically wipes away the drop of wine from his forehead,
Puts it back into a glass,
And the sleeper awakes,
Sees the droplet shining like a hundred million rubies in that glass
Which was empty while he slept.
He stares some more.
The universe oscillates during this second of silence
And then slumber reasserts its rights,
And the universe resumes its course
Down the thousands of white roads laid down by this world
Across the shadowy countrysides.
Robert Desnos