Pierre Martory, p.1
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE A BAKER
Would you like to be a baker
Leper of flowers at the singing dawn
The belly round under the peel and to sleep
In the oven hell a dream of kind acts?
To move away from sleep as soon as it’s midnight
The darkness peopled by a fertile snow
To cut loaves with scarred flanks
On skin powdered with handsome coins
To run through the streets when an archduke returns
Spit out cigarette butts in the swollen grain sieves
Swim for ages in the candid tar
The heavy tablecloth sticking to your wrist
Would you like to be a baker?
Would you like to be a baker
Leper of flowers at the singing dawn
The belly round under the peel and to sleep
In the oven hell a dream of kind acts?
To move away from sleep as soon as it’s midnight
The darkness peopled by a fertile snow
To cut loaves with scarred flanks
On skin powdered with handsome coins
To run through the streets when an archduke returns
Spit out cigarette butts in the swollen grain sieves
Swim for ages in the candid tar
The heavy tablecloth sticking to your wrist
Would you like to be a baker?