XVI CHRONOS

Le sans - visage, sang du seul coeur issu,
Sous la clarté devenu sol, sel, usages,
Mer où surnage la splendeur d'un visage
Qui se croit roc sur un sommeil jamais su,

Bloc fissuré d'où coulent, fluent et se suc-
cèdent, an après an, rituels sages,
(Et quelquefois il se devine passage,
Cet univers, pour un craquement perçu)

Île brisée et flottaison, il et île
Enorgueilli de la croyance futile
Qu'un coquillage est le prétexte du flot,

Sol refondu de la saumure qui ronge
(Songe durci, mais la substance est de songe)
Puis dans le sang diluant son bref caillot.

7 mai 1992

XVI CHRONOS

O faceless one, pouring blood that from one's heart streams,
The sun turned you to salt, soil, reliable trace,
A sea whereon lingers the splendour of a face
That means to be a rock amidst unconscious dreams,

Cracked stone exuding in continuous flow
Year after year, rituals, appropriate and sound,
(Though, when a squeak is heard in this world's undergrounds
You may suspect, sometimes, the change they undergo).

Broken isle, floating wreck. Whether vessel or reef,
You delude yourself with the deceptive belief
That a mere shell may be the pretext for a flood,

Soil that the brine has drenched and spoiled and watered down
(Hardened dream whose substance itself is dream bygone)
As has, its short-lived clot once diluted, the blood.

May 7th 1992