Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Pierre Voélin

Mountains—moist rags gripped by fists and fists

Words alone invent the scree

and the pheasant-headed light lays its feathers on the paths

One word—only one beyond languages and you who touch its frosty mask

Every time day falls young girl you awake

the torrent and its noises lift the lintel of your house

Every sleep is captive in the gold of the pine needles

The hawkweed has stayed at the level of our mouths

the swarm has fled to meet you



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