improbable et surtout
chimérique intersection
du réel et de l’irréel, de l’ici et de l’ailleurs;
le relatif et l’absolu se croisent
au delà des paradoxes de la parole,
la pensée est souvent aveugle aux échanges sensibles avec le monde:
les dieux déjouent le concept de relativité,
ils nous montrent brutalement le néant,
le frémissement de l’obscurité.
commençons le voyage, la traversée du désir et de la mort…
la mémoire du paysage est tout ce qui compte
- la naissance d’une histoire, une vraie question de l’humilité -
il te faudra ouvrir les portes de la mort pour sentir
la vie qui éclate en toi comme une explosion de lumière,
comme une pluie de ton sang: tes mains seront propres
mais froides comme la neige…
between the quest and the star of hopes
between the mind and the dissipating reflection in the mirror
the cradle of dreams arches high, a vision of worlds yet to come -
a music in different keys, flashes of light, waves of love,
territories yet uncharted, a journey (necessary) -
yes, you must know by now there are
no easy solutions,
no simple denouement to this story;
choices, attitudes, a merry-go-round of
blessings and little joys spinning in the mist,
in the dark corridor between your thoughts
and le mur des lamentations.
you cannot touch them or count them;
can’t you see how pain
slices open the hours
a row of gutted fish in a sunday market?
are you still looking for truth?
go away, leave,
spread your wings inward and
let your clumsy flight slash your heart:
butterfly trapped in a bottle…
in spring she used to write poems
about love and death - she pulled some
fresh metaphors from the black moist earth;
there was a humming in the air
and she held them in her hands,
pressed to her chest like magnolia flowers -
shape shifting metaphors may mimic spring blossoms;
it is well known that
the mind survives precisely due to its instability:
fall, collapse, rehabilitation, healing, redemption
rotate periodically around the axis of folly;
nothing more absurd, I know,
than an ideal of order and harmony -
a ‘fabrique de jardin’ where
neither body nor soul will find shelter,
she said with a sigh, folding the clouds on her lap;
was she edgy, watchful?
was she afraid she’d be played?
oh, no! she expected nothing straight,
good or true
from the treacherous spring and
she trusted nobody with a human face.
