Eventail                                       Je

                                               puise l’air

                                                   dans

                                                    un

                                                pays ficti

                                                     f

                                                   Cette

                                                       o          mbre que me confère

                                                                    la lune   

                                                        c          omme une

                                                                               encre  

                                                                     immatérielle  

Le

Fouji                                        L’Ange  

                                                du Japon 

                                        a revêtu son surplis      

                                                de plumes

                                                   Seule                    est

                                                      la                assez fragile

                                                    rose              pour exprimer

                                                                            l’Eternité

                          La                                 sent

                        goutte                      que toute mer

                            d’                         est occupée

                          eau                                à

                                                        la solliciter

Eventail

                                                     dans la main du p

                                                      oète qui ordonne

                                                    la nature comme le

                                                      sextant du marin

                                                              calcule

                                                                  le

                                                                        ciel

                                          Je                         du bout du monde

                                         suis                     pour savoir ce qui se

                                         venu                   cache de rose au fond

                                                                    des pivoines blanches

                                                                           de Hasédéra

Sous                                            d’un bout de la

les                                                terre à l’autre

pieds                                                    un

de                                                     chemin

la                                                           de

Lune                                                 sommeil

                                          Par                           autour de Tokyo

                                       toutes                               les Iris

                                          les                       se sont mis  en marche

                                       routes                         pour aller voir

                                                                            L’Empereur

                                                Si l’on veut

                                          me séparer du Japon

                                                 que ce soit

                                           avec une poussière

                                                        d’

                                                              or

Cent phrases pour éventails

Editons Gallimard, 1942

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