Encore et encore il entre dans cette chambre et
va tout droit vers la fenêtre – qu'est-ce qu'il peut
voir –
il ne voit pas, il regarde.
Il a l'air –
Il semble regarder la vitre, sourire à soi-même. Il
avance dans le noir absorbé par son regard
- toujours plus loin dans le regard – en proie à
des pensées instables, sans repère, s'annulant à
tout moment.Les traits de son visage se sont
another proffesional begger
the saxophone gathers up its dreams in match boxes
I could swear that I have memories only of you
flying our nights with sales hunting the presence
of a sure morning
an antropomorphic indian dance of pure dreams
inside one midnight
if we didn't know we could dream
would we dream?
on the silence ward
we tip-toe in
words
dressed like wounds
and fiddle with
spots
where the chin
hits the chest
repeatedly
incessantly
stretching them
wide into
smiles
over milk teeth
until tongues
lay dry
as prunes
it appears out of nowhere
and even if I guess it
or not
I pretend to be too clever
to water its roots
with lacy butterflies of hope
too busy, too awake
to walk the walk of dreams
daily surrendered to dawn
like freedom
by caught and trialed killers
and when it stings
like a bee that knows all about
honey
all about petals and fate
it feels grateful and peaceful and forever
lost
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