Tire La Chevillette, La Bobinette Cherra

As innocent as a sealed envelope, and as purposeful as a postman, in a practical and dirtproof short skirt, I go the long way round through the dark forest. I carry a present for the Ideal, not cake and wine, oh, no - the crystal vessel with my heart inside. The distant Ideal is soteriological, but the wayfarer is stubborn and enthusiastic. My feet rise the dust, my bra is tight, the moths like my eyes and lips… Having seen the silver roof from afar, I pick up the pace, I knock on the door and I hear the voice: "Tire la chevillette, la bobinette cherra*". *(fr.) Press the latch and the door will open.