Please help me analyze this poem ^^?
Where will this tight-lipped dream go,
Where the world was in itself made mock of.
Where glory shone like a nocturnal sun
Haloing Minerva, false-faced.
We know those Mata-Haris
Toppling over into middle-age,
From an old masterpiece to a new, soon frescoes
Pinned to the wall by twelve young soldiers.
One foot on the earth locks the other in the dream.
Limping towards the call of Hell in Val des Baux
I enrich, through the holes of its funereal sponge
A night waiting for my choice of graves.