ils sont partis sans ailes
malades de solitude
parmi les couronnes des arbres
ils sont partis sans moi
je suis restée la feuille des mots
dans ta maison de riz
aux fenêtres aveugles
je suis restée le dernier livre sur les vagues indifférentes
between two words the voice
loses its balance
glides on its reflection
in corners flashes of shadow
the speakers the writers buried
and in the mouth
the forgotten taste of crushed vowels
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
The thoughts, indefatigable travellers of life,
gliding on the eternal waters of time,
connect people with people, people and things.
Listen attentively and you will hear
their gentle swish as of an angel
soaring lightly
in the night.
The soul is a clepsydra
through which
thoughts and memories
are flowing ceaselessly
in the abysm of silence.
hung to its tremor
only
gleam
epic solidified along the arm
deaf fingers of the
vowels
a sound falls
the gesture has the giddiness
the glance is crushed
has this precise angle
deaf freezing of the gesture
blows
glance
voice
even suspended transparency
of mirror out of mirror
I become opaque with the voice
black escape of the glance
the voice falls
the sound is crushed
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