on the night, when the stars fell to the ground
to kiss their shadows
you, the rambler, found a gleam among the grass
that is how your destiny has been written.
after all those battles and destruction
someone walks through the square, looking at
the hanged bodies, he feels grateful to be alive.
you can read your past on the surroundings
of the grave in the garden: it is your name.
you have lived as much as you have cried
when the night, honoured by the stars,
came like a dark kitten
rubbing against my foot,
I became a brunette
saturday in arles
all the stars, large and small,
are singing now in chorus
"a salute to van gogh, one of those of the not newborns
he would remember us better than anyone"