Et pourtant il disait quelque chose.
Il parlait. On se parlait. Ses mots étaient de plus
en plus rares.
Il parle. La nuit tombe d'un mot à l'autre, de
syllabe en syllabe.
Il voit les objets. les couleurs disparaître,
s'écouler dans leurs ombres. Il les regarde
s'effacer, il les regarde de plus en plus
intensément.
Seul le blanc résiste au noir.
Qui s'amasse.
Jusqu'où
the hailstones were falling like dragons
attacking the windows of the North Tower
it was a New Moon, the beginning of a golden era,
the end of a long shift
his arm stretched, brought the sun from the dungeon
tied one of its rays, gently to my little finger
and nailed it to the sky with a swift move
the clouds collapsed like a pack of cards
(Queen of spades fell to pieces, like it never existed)
and then he held my hand, his sword and shield
leaning peacefully against the rest of my world
Ideas are the most powerful and horrible chains.
But things can be beautiful without purpose.
Mind can drip as a leaking pipe.
Don’t fool yourself into drinking too much from it.
Death is like when you are perfectly still.
But what if your mind moves?
Sometimes you need to be able to give up everything
only to keep one thing, any thing.
How do you know if 1, 2, 3 means going up or going down?
You don’t.
We always are a bit afraid of beauty; we feel vulnerable.
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.
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