It is the wind the force which makes the world
and, wildly blowing, rules over it.
a creation made in a great hurry,
by someone who couldn't do without it.
that's why it goes sketching the outlines
of the sailing boats and the steam ships,
of the smoke trails snacking at the horizon
and of the ladies' very long skirts
on the terrace of this fine hotel
smelling of anisettes and pastries.
the wind wants to remind us who rules
on this Haute Normandie coast:
and Claude Monet is only its notary,
sybkime and incomparable bureaucrat.