she’s looking down to the water
grabbing my grandmother’s hand and diving
can you hear them talking
as if no winds have gone between them
swim my dearest ones
they have cherry earrings
grandma’s sewing some vanilla white shoes
hiding the knots of her youth on the back
feeling my daughter’s feet with her disappearing hands
they both look at the waters
Parlant, écrivant, oubliant - la chute des verbes
qui s'amassent
pour devenir des tas de noms: le parlant,
l'oubliant, l'écrivant
Dans la foule des paroles
je ne le vois pas:
Il a cessé de parler.
Ralenti du silence, perceptible: la ligne blanche
dont l'arc se tend.
La nuit avance.
I will grasp the distance
and gently rub my palms
one
against the other
pieces of broken glass slipping through my fingers
no, not the happiness
and you’ll drink in the last drop until you reach fear
we’ll seed the wood into the first tree
of each village
behind us like a dragon
the embraced angels
bring the fatality of an ascending path
then
only then
I will arise in you
Wasn’t it further
any flare?
Even rarer
became the shuteye of the starer.
His face averted,
lashing himself for the valedictory staccato
of his will-o’-the-wisp
looked set on the pleasurer.
Longer than an epimyth
had milled about the downslopes
the forthright wayfarer
to harbour his quixotic hope!
preened for his aright scoop the plunderer.
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