It trembled so, the wind set it sailing

Oil on limbs,maybe a rancid smellas on the chapel’soil-press here,as on the rough poresof the unturning stone.Oil on hairwreathed in ropeand maybe other scentsunknown to uspoor and richand statuettes offeringsmall breasts with their fingers.Oil in the sunthe leaves shudderedwhen the stranger stoppedand the silence weighedbetween the knees.The coins fell:‘In the goddess’s name I summon you…’Oil…

The marbles shining in the sunThe sea, the curling waves.Just a little moreLet us rise just a little higher.

A woman beating her dry breasts cried out; `Cowards,they’ve taken my children and torn them to shreds, you’vekilled themgazing at the fire-flies at dusk with a strange look,lost in blind thought.’The blood was drying on a hand that a tree made green,a warrior was asleep clutching the lance that cast lightagainst his side.It was ours,…

it is because you listen to it more sweetly, and you can’t talk of horror because it’s alivebecause it doesn’t speak and movesit drips the day, it drips on sleeplike a pain reminding of evils.To speak of heroes to speak of heroes: Michaliswho left with open wounds from hospitalmay have talked of heroes when, that…

the jar that refused to go dry at the end of dayand the closed bed by the cypress trees and your hairgolden; the stars of the Swan and that other star, Aldebaran.I’ve kept a rein on my life, kept a rein on my life, travellingamong yellow trees in driving rainon silent slopes loaded with beech…

with the paintings of the damned being tortured in fire and brimstonethen I recall the two chimneys behind the cedars I used to like so much when I was abroad.All through March rheumatism wracked your lovely loins and in summer you went to Aidipsos.God! what a struggle it is for life to keep going, as…