Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons
TO EACH UNFOLDING LEAF (Poems) Translated by John Taylor
But shame at the commissures of time! The beech woods. The endless plains. The bone
powder. The wounds.
It was nothing, that chill accompanying every word. And here he is, living off little, living off snow. Ordered to obey, and knowing this. So that these debris of blades and axes turning in the secrecy of the heart will stay sharp. Later his hand will alternate between writing with stone and with glass. All that was left to drink, this little amount of rainwater. . . to dwell on the face of silence. In the splice of the last poem, the infinite exile of love. Increased by the raindrops, the horror, the empty stare. Who always knew how to stand up to the sky, his head split open, slowly overcome by the falling rocks. You exchange the face enabling you to dream. Your mouth now: the bitter rye, the dew, the flames.
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