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for Monique Girard
Amidst the severe landscape
of the immobile bodies,
between the rays
of the broken pot of water:
Love of the dawning frontier,
oceanic feather of silver,
winter palace of the fire,
dawn of pollen in another cup:
you arrive, with your fiery mouth of snow,
banging your waist against the leaves,
like drizzle striking the drum of my chest,
and you confuse the barbarous spirit of my steps
with the torrential sanguinary twilight
of the artillery and my dead brothers.
Crowded flower of the cliffs,
distant statue of an obscure awakening:
to your storm that keeps a watch over our turret
I tie myself, among the moans of the bell-tower
and the rain scattering the foliage. |
