Philippe Soupault

 

Westwego

One summer I was walking around London
your feet are on fire and your heart is in your eyes
in front of black walls in front of red walls
at the big docks
where huge policemen like petulant ones
standing question mark
You could play with the sun
perched like a bird on everyone
monuments
train pigeon
everyday pigeon
I walked through this neighborhood called Whitechapel
pilgrimage of my youth
where I found nothing
as very well dressed people
who wore top hats
and matchstick sellers
with straw hats on
who cried like the peasant women of France
to attract the customers
penny penny penny
I entered a pub
third class wagon
Daisy Mary Poppy
there they sat around the table
next to the fishmongers
who chewed with a wink
to forget the night
the night that came with wolf steps
with owl steps
the night and the smell of the river and that of the tides
the dream-torn night

it was a sad day
made of copper and sand
who glided lazily between the memories