He surely will be getting married today. 

It should have been yesterday.
Dressed for a gala, he was ready.

He was only waiting for his fiancée.
She didn't come. 
She tarried. 

Magnificent, he strolled
with the allure of an Indian prince 
and brought the customary rich presents. 

Love kindled a burst of colors 
and his aigret quivered like a lyre. 

His fiancée does not arrive.

He climbs to the top of the roof 
and from its edge beholds the sun. 

He sounds his diabolical cry: 

"Leon! Leon!" 

Thus does he call his fiancée.
He sees nothing come, and no one answers. 
The birds, accustomed to this,
do not even raise their head. 
They are bored of admiring him.
He comes down and enters the courtyard, 
so sure of his own beauty 
that he is incapable of rancor. 

His wedding will be tomorrow. 

And, not knowing what to do 
for the rest of the day, 
he heads toward the porch. 
He climbs its stairs, 
like the stairs of the temple, 
with an officious tread. 

He picks up his tailed robe 
so heavy from eyes 
that cannot detach themselves. 

He repeats the ceremony one more time.