Once I was dancing on a cliff, dressed in
white with a white "lilies of the valley" -crown on
my hair. I was not so old, perharps ten or eleven, and at the
foot of the mountains the sea shore and the Aegean sea, white
and blue were my colours and you were a face to paint tulips.
Then a bit far away... fire-flies and syrens, sea-urchins and
hedgehogs, the smell of spring-time, the white ancient taste
of childhood. You took me by hand into the sharp teeth of fire-clay
fishes. No pain at all, all was so natural... while clementines
and lemons are still resting there , in my infancy remembrances.
Am I still pure ? Am I what I was ? I was a face to paint tulips
and the moon gave me her chant in that April morning life.
Time has passed by and life has been spent. Autumn is the new
season left. Who am I ? What am I ? A red deep dirge under a
November moon. The fire is powerful but I'm not. So please,
flames write the hieroglyphs of instinct and pleasure on my
skin and deep on my heart tissues because here I am under a
frozen moon and it's November. If I was wise I would have said
goodbye to you but I'm not. In the autumn of life where words
have dried on my tongue after such a long singing... sunk wreckages
are the only hold of instants until the core bit. These are
my verdigris wounds.
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