Standing trees sleep in this forest that created the night when the moon was looking elsewhere. Gone the sailboats, the sea, in this obscurity that’s keeping no promise.
Shadows strangely resemble yesterday’s trees, yesterdays and tomorrows being the walls of our prisons.
Those shadows have landed us into taxis and houses, telling the light to stay outside but the moon was right not to bother.
The wedding of history with the coffee we drink in our ever shrinking days awakes our need to reinvent love.
Empty shells lie on the beach in hours always uncertain.
The Indian will not cut the grass because, he says, that’s his mother’s hair, and I assured him that I will not break a stone because that might well be his spirit’s house.
Philosophy brings us back to simplicity.
Now waves of roses are blanketing memory, but childhood’s desire to enter time’s core remains. Nothing is stirring. Grass grows differently than words. In those roses, infinity’s infinity.
The wish to inhabit storms leads to cities in flames. Traces turn into signs, and thinking precedes itself in the deep recesses of the brain. Bodies are always naked under their clothes.
Words melt in reflections; that’s why there’s a uselessness to this night, to my missing the river, to the delaying of love… light is picking up momentum in the vicinity of the oaks that cover this property, this silence.
Not to be able to climb up a mountain, run from this place to the next, see things improving for friends or nations, or even desire a clear day, not to stop the torture…
but this late afternoon, the fallen leaves were soft, walking on them didn’t seem to hurt any, they were friendly. I went a long way. What happened later was of no importance.
Where were we before being born in a sealed womb? All to be said is that something always remains from anything, even from nothingness.
Bitter bitterness. Thoughts worming in, as we move on smooth surfaces, though derailed here and there, or swim against the current, see the brain create lines of strawberries, banks of whales, angels, in profusion…
The world came into being, and didn’t ask for maintenance; was it then pure mind? Those early hours still resonate as an echo, a breeze under the apple trees. I’m asking you to welcome the night.
The deer, at this moment, is capering all over the fields.
Eternity is non evident. There’s this endless rotation of the sun in the skull, the stillness outside, and a storm within. At least a river is always flowing in some part of the country. Winds, always gathering speed, shatter the order of things. We return home, in tears.
We leave for wherever History takes us. Preceded. Followed.
I peeled every trace of light off the walls. Withdrew into blurred definitions.
Today is a beautiful day. The girls are staggering with exhaustion. It’s time to gather the poppies spread around, wave to the boats born so happy.
