Sacred valley, Peru, South America, 2018, Sylvie GE
a haughty shadow
delineated in Indian ink
appeared in my dreams
speaking a foreign language that
evoked my roots
but felt like thorns
sinking unwittingly
under the skin of origins
*first posted in November 2020
Every Sunday at seven o'clock, turns the crank of the dream machine: what happened, or what will be happening, what could be, and there we go, exaggerating the colors and the smells, the intensity, the emotions, before we come back on earth (not that we ever left, it was all in the mind)
Andes, on our way to Mendosa, October 2018 (I wish I had « painted » this photo), canon, Sylvie GE
I do not know where I was
if I was sleeping
if I was dreaming or imagining
that you were speaking
in the imperfect tense
in a distracted way about what was important
but I remember that I was existing
without delay
it was perfect
Un blog experimental voue a la poesie du quotidien sous toutes ses formes/An experimental blog devoted to poetry in all its forms
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