I remember well
those “four hundred blows” by Truffaut
and the tracking shot with the little deserter,
Antoine Doinel,
across the beach,
searching a sea that seemed more like a wall.
And the happy-end
that the transvestite censorship in voice-over
overcame the author's pessimism,
made us see
that a cruel world
is saved with a homily outside the script.
Cinema, cinema, cinema,
more cinema please,
that everything in life is cinema
and dreams,
cinema are.
At last the dreaded day beyond the sea has arrived,
foreseen by the grays of Henri Decae;
how right
the censor was,
Antoine Doinel died in his “marital home”.
I apologize
for confusing cinema with Actually,
it is not easy to forget Cahiers du cinéma,
le Mac Mahon,
that happened,
they are old waves with hangovers from the nouvelle vague.

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