To Marguerite Porete and some others




Open sea




White and swift thoughts
quicksilver softly corrupting the gold of time
annihiliated transparencies of beguines
flowing in the crimson sun of History
so free that faints the power to tell it


Thoughts of a very old red blended with pitching sand
similar in their smooth and black fullness to these olives
from which the proudness of seaweeds raises again with the coming hightide
Fair thoughts and yet out of which the obsidiane flows
of this night so tender and warm of the fading Being
electrifying our skys in silent storms

 

Time is filling our cups

 

Nothing
but to drink out this fairy-failure
this loss
but to coddle the breath and brand of consciousness
in the white focus of our bodies

 

The elven king glides on the top of the waves
below the powder of centuries the new blackness of his gaze glitters


In the ashes, the mat jewel of Unity
in the tenuous evidence of ashes
beyond any doubt
immediate
vertigo of certainty

 

To make it short
the One

 

that cannot be told
Present however
caress
to the skin and soul
unavoidable
breath of certainty

 

Present
in the very core of your fragments
present
in the very flash of the break
Inexpugnable

 

And silence

 

So this clarity that you credit things with
is blunder
and though shadows and ghosts multiply on the screen
in the very depth of things, nothing is sure
but this beating heart of all proof

 

Wash your eyes and read the prism
See
There is nothing there
but the simple water of your history
mocking and its beautiful laughter that shakes
the hickups of these rattles where your blood goes to waste

 

So entrust the clouds with your all dreams of space *
and blow these smokes away
Never again shall you see your mothers

 

Absence only gives weight to returns
but their weights are false
and their measures are lies

 

Nothing that returns might ever be love

 

 

* "Nous avons appelé notre cage l'espace, et ses barreaux déjà ne nous contiennent plus"
                                                                                      
Louis Aragon . (La nuit de Moscou)