But You, when will you come?
One day, extending Your hand
above the neighborhood where I live,
at the ripe moment when I really despair;
in an instant of thunder,
divorcing me with terror and sovereignty
from my body and from the faded body
of my thought-images, ridiculous universe,
leaving in me Your fearful sounding rod,
the dread forerunner of Your presence,
constructing in an instant upon my diarrhea
Your straight and insurmountable cathedral;
projecting me not as a man
but as a shell into the vertical,
YOU WILL COME.
You will come, if You exist,
lured by my disorder,
my odious autonomy;
appearing from the Ether, from no matter where, from underneath
my astounded self, it may be;
flinging the burnt match of me into Your unmeasure,
Adieu, Michaux.
Or else, what?
Never? Not at all?
Tell me, Big Prize of the Lottery, where, then, do you wish to fall?