Very late, when he feels his stomach churn
Brother Milotus, one eye on the skylight
Whence the sun, bright as a scoured stewpan
Darts a megrim at him and dizzies his sight
Moves his priest's belly under the sheets

He struggles beneath the grey blanket
And gets out, his knees to his trebling belly
Flustered like an old man who has swallowed a pinch of snuff
Because he has to tuck up his nightshirt in armfuls round his waist
With one hand grasping the handle of a white chamberpot!

Now he is squatting, chilly, his toes curled up
His teeth chattering in the bright sunshine
Which daubs the yellow of cake upon the paper panes;
And the old fellow's nose, its crimson catching fire
Snuffles in the rays like a polypary of flesh

.........................................................

The old fellow simmers at the fire, his arms twisted, his blubber lips
On his belly: he feels his thighs slipping into the fire
And his breeches scorching, and his pipe going out;
Something resembling a bird stirs a little
In his serene belly which is like a mountain of tripe!
Round about him sleeps a jumble of stunned furniture
Among tatters of filth, lying on soiled bellies;
Stools cower like weird toads in dark corners:
Cupboards have maws like choirmasters
Yawning with a sleepiness which is full of revolting appetites

The sickening heat stuffs the narrow room;
The old fellow's head is crammed with rags:
He listens to the hairs growing in his moist skin
And sometimes, with deep and clownish hiccoughs
Moves away, shaking his rickety stool

.........................................................

And in the evening, in rays of moonlight which leaves
Dribbles of light on the contours of his buttocks
A shadow with details squats against a background
Of snow-coloured pink like a hollyhock...
Fantastic, a nose follows Venus in the deep sky