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I hear the Milky Way falling. A shadow — and this was the promise.

You say no like you were cheating, hastily went away. Clowns trapped by a thunderstorm take shelter under a barn as I massage the exhausted saxophonist. A cold-eyed young man hums a love song.

Les grandes voix belges au soleil de l’Orient

Early morning facing Pierre, then a train station at midday. Le petit matin devant Pierre, puis une gare en plein midi. In the living room enters a draft to greet a man at the window, as his silence is akin to lavender fields which release their scent in the evening wind; to hot and red stones as the day lays down. A peaceful coolness brushes me by as he gets close, and a chuckle, next to a sob, breaks inside my stomach. Not knowing him, I speak in his ear because of the noise of the party.

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Let me sing like wolves sing. They gave me back my animal skin, and the earth was quiet as I lay down on it. A scream rushed from below the earth. The blood that flows from your side is not just your blood. Through your wound, great wolf, the whole earth cries, that earth whose heart was sold. And when you return to your den, tell me, great wolf, what do you bring back? More often than not, you only bring back a bit of night between your teeth. Je veux chanter comme les loups. Un cri surgit de sous la terre. Bien souvent, tu reviens seulement avec un peu de nuit dans les dents. The roughness of voices on syllables grips on words too naked to come out of the throat.

Flings disperse when blown upon, and perfume the afternoon with an ever tender chirping. Close to death, Lord, why such silence? Is there an angel standing at the hour of passing next to that body left lying? Or does the wrench of the self from you have to go utterly alone?

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This dreadful angst, still, you pierced it with light three days in a row, under a stone. Why does my soul suddenly dry up? The shores which life has deserted provide no rest at all. Just like you did, then, things keep silent. Lord, you came to wash their feet and take human life away with you, to the Heavens. You are free, O breath of fire. The wind blows where it cares. Seigneur, venu laver les pieds, et emporter avec toi la vie humaine au Ciel. And just like mothers in deep sleep worried that they might squeeze their newborn baby, I run the risk, every day, of smothering you in the night of my blinding.

Will the blessing return? The call of another day? Underneath my feet once rumbled forces whose magnificence and power made me tremble.


The only answer to that fright was to barter my life. Acrobats have been working in the circus all week, but I do not know any answer anymore to the beauty of the world. God of weariness, at the time of oversized pants and cold condos, here is emptiness. A sacred wound which I had gotten too much used to. Without it, to go on the road of which it was the sky, the landscape, the sun, and the night, the weariness, the rest, the outrage, the rock on which we sit the fruits we pluck and eat, the water which we drink, the earth.

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You have removed its ever cursed wound from my soul; long ago, you bathed it in light. Farewell, fear that has us cheat. Childhood is right to die. Adieu, la peur qui fait tricher.

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Crazy girl, whom had I taken you for? I thought I were faithful; I thought I served you, but I locked you up inside my folly, and mistaken every word with yours. Welcome to www. This website uses Cookies for marketing purposes, web analytics and to give you a more personalized experience. Select your country Select your country. Wrangler Online Shop.

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