Here I am bathing, this winter, like an antelope under rain showers. God’s voice is still walking on clay laid out from the beginning of time up to the end of earth. The first woman’s eyelashes are scattering from a forest braids, strip-teasing over the dead ground. But I am a leaf taken away by the wind, sleeping here in the space of leady time cut out off days’ diary, waiting for a scarf made of butterflies’ wings, and for a dress knit of nightingales’ warbles.
Here I am, void of passport; my tiny heart snoozes on dribble’s cooing inside my bosom, which is pierced by primitive love, just like a handful of pottery broken by seasons, in tune with the steps of a coming desire.
Sky’s curtains push away the sun from me, throwing me into grey
Ash shows me I had been there, weaving dresses for goddesses, by a brush of fire and water;
Ash inter-mixes gods and demons in a play of antagonisms, in an East which is indifferent to directions;
Ash takes me back, to the age of fire minarets, tenants and camels taking refuge in embers;
Ash flowers colored feathers on the bed of my friend, the fire bird.
And, at this winter, I am a leaf taken by the wind; I sleep here, in the lap of raw minerals, waiting for a swallow’s flight painting a circle between two lovers. Here I sleep, lining my eyes by dark lights and collecting my heart’s broken fractions fallen on the sidewalk.
I am just a leaf at the wind’s fist. Fume evaporates from nostrils of horses and fertility goddesses who’d become exhausted by wars and disappointments. A frowning cloud pours water on the ember of a faraway dimming star. Icy flames drop from a phosphorous firefly at caves’ darkness.
And me, at this winter, I gather myself from initial materials, from human dung, from remnants of exterminated giants, from scraps of skin decorated by dead tongues, from withering letters on papyrus papers, from the cocoon of a mummy, from herbs dropping off hanging gardens by a thin thread, from piles of poems beyond the expired date, from the ruins of stone mirrors. Here I am collecting me out of Aboriginal dance around torches of the virgin astonishment, and climbs up on the stalk of sea-weed that is just about to become green within the rust of a damp tank.