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for Monique Girard
My love, with your smile of
foam,
crystal navigated in its own transparency:
the apple and echo sleep in the soul of the drum,
until you arrive with your waist, and then you leave behind
the melancholy of something that goes.
The jungle's liturgy is confused
during the night;
bread and poison are drizzle from the same well
and they spit at the spirit of the clock with a worship
of a desperate orgy of pleasure.
My innocent bell of snow,
far away and remote,
hear my hand that shakes,
searching for you, and feel my steps
that one day, to love you ,will return.
I am quiet, my love,
and I am contemplating the great ceremony of man:
he prepares a mass and quietly is awaiting
a eucharist of hatred and blood. |
