Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Pierre Voélin

Your eyes are gazing over this ridge groping in the copses gulping down the sky getting drunk on birds

Scorn of the watchman burning his firewood his stick smashing the agaric and slashing the columbine You love only the dirt-brown homespun of the ditches the marten-skin trails are crawling towards you

What rage snuffs the breath of the forests The treecreepers fluttering Up and down the moldy knees of a tree

No word shelters this end of day No traces save the orchis and the wind the soft swaying of the ferns

And off I go to greet speechless ex-priests so astonished to have accompanied life

Silence is stirring its light-colored wood shavings without granting the heart its wish

a single glance suffices for our embrace 57

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