knocks at my thought
from the thought of the ocean
a paddle
lost by a boat in a memory wave
like a submerged rock surrounded by walls
where from a whimper departs
silences go out to greet him in the evening
witnesses being only the mornings
lost through ports
no one hears his grief
tuck to his chest like a poniard
a friend once told me
never ever fall in love with a poet
he'll eat your eyes at breakfast
have your heart cooked for lunch
and in the evening he'll listen
quietly your laments
while drinking a glass full of tears
your tears
now this shit might be true or not
one thing's for certain
i've since written some poems
and always been keeping an empty glass nearby
l’hippogriffe regardait l’oasis cachée parmi les dunes
comme un dernier acacia qui se dévoile lentement dans la nuit
et il sentit jusque dans les plus petits recoins du temps
le silence du désert agrandissant
sous l’ œil implacable de l’éternité
l’océan du sable au repos
les véritables exilés moururent de fatigue
sauf le sphinx qui exhala, avide, le souffle du désert
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