Last season

If the lips are red,
these hands are so white,
on my hands.
In the village where I was raised
there was no tree
neither nuts… because I craved
myself from time to time.

In the village where I was raised
there was no wheat field.
In the village where I was raised
from the north the wind left
a dryness my chapped lips.

Do I remember some boyfriends I had?

I wonder what they were like.
I dreamed that they changed a bit,
not the same as always.

Now they are a name in the books,
Last names in parentheses.
Their birth and death years
at the bottom of the page,
or maybe it's from when
they were edited.

A list of names in the books.
Like birds in agony
of death within my hand.
In parentheses, a dash.
Everything that was is there.
The hopes, the fears,
the teas, the joys.

Everything that was is there.
Now they remain inside…
As prisoners of these books.
In these traits they still live!
One cannot go back.
One can just kill people
inside their cells.

Friends died
without my permission.
I salute the poets
recently translated
for our language.
I must enjoy this winter
melting before me.

There are dark birds
that wrangle in the eater.
All this shiny snow...
It circles the street in drains,
Rivers of broken hearts...


PAR