Guillaume Apollinaire presents a concrete poem
Il Pleut (It Rains)
it is raining women’s voices as if they were dead even in memory
you also are raining down marvelous encounters of my life o little drops
and these rearing clouds are beginning to whinny a whole world of auricular towns
listen to it rain while regret and disdain weep an old fashioned music
listen to the fall of all the perpendiculars of your existence
expression. placement. movement. perfection
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