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it is very cold in winter;is not it?
30/03/2006 03:54
When I arrived to Brest, the streets were inserted under water. Thousands of died birds, engulfed by the open windows, bleached, given up on the roofs, in the cellars, on the floors of the buildings. The inhabitants, sometimes, believe to intend them to sing, but it is the breath of the wind which rises in the port. All the city, upright, waits. They know that that can return one day. The noise of the bombers or that of the bells which announce the plague stumbles on the granite staircases. Brest the gray one, day before, knees in the sea, the hair streaming of fog. Poppies push between its stones. Often a gull bursts the sky and breaks the concrete of a blow of nozzle. Of instinct, the child that you were knew the music of the bombs, their tender whistle which breaks the night as a shell of?uf You were so small, to perhaps even be born, connected by a thin cord to the bit of life and yet, under your cranium, already, a thousand of sparrows. They pépient and inlassablement their memory in me, ebbs. Harms after night, I deploy insomniac seas, unbolts the grids, pickles and oxygenates a prehistoric territory where we find ourselves, interfered salt at the origins. I derived in the rumour from your dreams, as in a river with the calm mirror where I floated, kneaded water and of fire. I convened the herd of your anguishes to entreat the clamour of the cellars (when the phalange of the iron bellies fell down) which still tears you. Today, pinned with the sea of Iroise, with the edging of the Occident, tended until sharp in the zone of the storms, you project currents, tides, benches of migration in the nets of the future. * * * * Predict I That started on the heights: the long-term winds, tended towards the odor of dust, smelled the noise. Excavating animals pushed the ground under the thickets. With the panes, blue sparks: "the lightning" said the peasants, tight in the content of the smoked out kitchens. Soon the day would be knocked with the tiles, would explode by touching dry grass. The winds fled, squeaking beyond the peaks, aggressive. And frightened stars, piled up in the turbulence of the barns. Burning all predict them, somebody goes in the rigid air. If little that we move, so slowly, everywhere its shade which drinks the light, its step and its inexorable advance in direction of our guérets. II The order of predict threat nowadays the course. What will you make, thousand times deadened, thousand times awaked in start in the medium of your life, whereas the wolves and the torments thunder, that the eagles themselves hide in brambles, that the bent faces of light and blood are depopulated?
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she is sleeping like an angel
so let here sleep safly please