Since not seeing her appear Hidden behind an orange tree, Pepita alone at her window You think about vengeance. Under your caftan slips your dagger Jealousy gnaws at your heart And alone with the noise of the waves You weep toreador. But he can scarcely walk, the poor Toreador. He sees Pepita sitting there, Offering her gaze and her body To the oldest doge of Venice Laughing at the toreador. Darius Milhaud Soft Caramel Take a young girl.
Nobody says a word.
That reflects its infinite languor in great formal pools And deigns, on the stagnant water where the tawny agony Of the leaves wanders with the wind and hollows out a frigid furrow, To be drawn away by the tall beam of the yellow sun. And I shall scarcely be shown naked on pottery. To keep my wing in your hand. A twilight coolness Comes over you with each pulsation Of the fan whose captive blow delicately, Displaces the horizon. Deprived of namelessness.