We the birds that you always charm from atop those lookouts
And who each night merge into a single flowering branch from your shoulders to the arms of your beloved wheelbarrow
Who tear ourselves away from your wrist more vividly than sparks
We are the sighs of the glass statue that raises itself on its elbow when man sleeps
And may glowing gaps open up in his bed
Gaps through which can be glimpsed stags with coral antlers in a clearing
And naked women at the very bottom of a mine
You remember you would arise then you would step off the train
Without a glance at the locomotive preyed upon by immense barometric roots
That cries out dolefully in the virgin forest with all of it’s mauled boilers
Its stacks puffing hyacinths and propelled by blue serpents
We would then move ahead of you we the plants prone to metamorphoses
Who each night send signals to ourselves that man can pick up
While his house collapses and he wonders at the odd interconnections that his bed seeks with the hallway and the staircase The staircase branches out indefinitely
It leads to a millstone door it widens suddenly onto a public square It is made of swan backs with one wing extended as a railing
It spins upon itself as if to bite itself
But no it is content as we advance to open all its steps like drawers
Bread drawers wine drawers soap drawers mirror drawers staircase drawers flesh drawers with handles of hair
At the moment when thousands of Vaucanson ducks preen their feathers
Without looking back you would grab the trowel that breasts are made of We would smile at you you held us by the waist
And we would take on the configurations of your pleasure
Motionless beneath our eyelids forever as a woman loves to see a man
After making love

— André Breton, 1932. Translated by Jean-Pierre Cauvin and Mary Ann Caws.

(Source: 1968andallthat.net)