Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Pierre Voélin

The other face of the stones, revived. You mark it. At ease in the night wind. Blood flows forth fromyour memory. You’ll know how to stop speaking when the dark outcome occurs. Thewanface, as if litupbythesinglepain.Deathgrasps his ankles, grips them. But he, so simple, his eyes knowing how to lead death back into the sky, the trees, the path. He hasn’t finished slowly chewing the bread! Soon, he’ll lift the lamp... A movement of the hand... A shower of crumbs to the titmice, little aerial nuns celebrating the precariousness of the day. . . Now he’s coming back to raise the question of God, of God’s slowness, of his own slowness. He shows his wrists, his chest, his legs. So many burns! Farther on, long boats, loaded with soot and snow, head back up the river. And what were the frosty, half-opened, suddenly petrified mouths for you? You didn’t want to sleep, but rather go first. A boulder-like breathing. The dazzling gaze. Withered, the tyrant’s fingernail. Vanquisher. Not having chosen to die. Who is urging you? Forcing you to bless his February farewells? They are coming, the last glance is for the bread bin. Throughout the journey, the fragrance of bread will be a

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