Sometimes she walks through the village in her little red dress

all absorbed in restraining herself,

and yet, despite herself, she seems to move

according to the rhythm of her life to come.

She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,

half-turns around …

and, all while dreaming, shakes her head

for or against.

Then she dances a few steps

that she invents and forgets,

no doubt finding out that life

moves on too fast.

It’s not so much that she steps out

of the small body enclosing her,

but that all she carries in herself

frolics and ferments.

It’s this dress that she’ll remember

later in a sweet surrender;

when her whole life is full of risks,

the little red dress will always seem right.