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The market
In the small square, at dawn,
the market laughs joyfully, loudly, multicoloured,
Pêle-mêle spreading on its lame
trestles Its cheeses, its fruits, its honey, its baskets of eggs,
And, on the slab where flows an ever new water,
Its fish of light silver, which a bitter smell reveals.
Mylène, her little Alidé by the hand,
In the crowd hardly finds her way,
Lingers at each stall, goes, comes, comes back, stops, stops,
At the too urgent calls sometimes turns her head,
Weights some fruit, haggles over the first
fruits Or moves away in the middle of insolent clamours.
The child follows her, happy; she adores the crowd,
the cries, the growls, the fresh wind, the flowing water,
the inn at the noisy threshold, the little grey donkeys,
And the pavement strewn everywhere with green debris.
Mylène has made her choice of fruits and vegetables;
she adds a live duck with beautiful feathers!
Alidé claps her hands, when, to satisfy her,
The mother finally gives her basket to carry.
The load makes his arm bend, but already proud,
the child leaves without saying anything and arches back,
While the duck, discordant prisoner,
shouts and passes a yellow beak to the vines of the basket.
Albert Samain, On the sides of the vase
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