Translated from the French by Patrick Williamson
What is meant by taking a tour around oneself
pacing the space where books are kept
clinging in a single look to canvases
and drawings
letting oneself be seduced by a song
and without a cane walking round the house
the paths, their trees whose branches
are the limits against the unforgiving sky
should one close one’s eyes as if to gaze
at the horizons of a thought
or to let a flower blossom
still without name or scent
is it fitting to redo all the paths taken
in order to clear the way forward
should one recoil or leap as if through a ring
of fire let oneself be surrounded until the end
by clamour
do events turn around themselves
like our wandering earth
should we throw ourselves into a well
or wait for the scale pans
to weigh our ashes
is it a discourse, an art, the measure of the compass
does a wave help one go completely around
a mollusc
not once like a list of birthdays
weddings or any such events
the belly of experience takes for granted
on the straw of whatever paradise we have lived
ah! I do not cling to the illusions of a photo album
but neither you or you know the answer
if only my eyes could pierce
then the spiral of the abyss in one last breath
around itself
The bread and its knife in a basket. By what paradox and in what hallway do truth and falsehood constantly switch places, behind masks that are themselves interchangeable? Who are we talking to by the well?
those lines etched on your brow
those creases when you search the sky
for traces of your path
on the hill, the row of vines
a rectilinear circle
the wrinkles of a moment’s wait
before oblivion
when the cart rolls by
but we must come
and lay our hand
on the upturned stonehead
and say it is so
like a finger of light
then you think of the man
who was like no other
with his exaggerated face
his sweat on his shoulders
the trails of his fingers near the stars
but in a cradle a child
talks to the sun
he pulls out an arrow
he plants it in his young night
to know bloodso the trace of farewells will not be such
will it be only the first and last
initial
the one, remember, born by your browwhere you place your burning hand
Photo on Unsplash by Florian Siedl
