I close my eyes to listen to my roots, the roof over my head must be an illusion that will not hold up, I will take somebody else’s voice to fill the guest card and then lay down, exhausted, in my dark stories.
a wave of lunar hope a new beginning a long sigh of relief: give up your prayers give me your hand.
tacit agreement we could see in each other eyes: after the rain I'd be morose. The color of the sky on the other side of the horizon, the change of seasons, all that, all that, the transition of the weather, the chaos of the world, all of that would make me morose.
if I had a house, it would be made of wood and it would be pink, it would smell of childhood, it wouldn't be too big, it would creak a little, and when entering from the back door, it would smell of fire.
The breeze hardly made my arms cold on that day in the middle of the slope needing to catch my breath I took a snapshot of the small yellow flowers (they hurt the mouths of sheep) that clung to the sandy cliff above the water *originally posted in March 2021, edited in March 2022
La brise ne donnait presque pas
froid aux bras
mais au milieu de la pente
pour reprendre mon souffle
prendre en cliché
les petites fleurs jaunes
(elles blessent la bouche des moutons)
qui s’accrochaient à la falaise sablonneuse
au-dessus de l’eau