Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Listen: I’m saying the sound of your name, curve of your letter. It’s time to stop believing in voices. This is the country of the constant. Darling you did not answer, my hands are waving underwater. My hand is holding my other hand, they are friends. In the night my fingers speak in shadows. In Greek your name means cold. Tonight it means a door which will not open. Salt drains the blood from the body but what of want? Please shut the door. I am tired of that sound. My voice is empty. Your first word, bird; mine, chair. Did you always love the window? Everything goes away. I am a girl with four legs. Still. Soon. And. Yet.


Jean-Jo said...

Your stories sounds like music, so vaious in colours and rythms.

Jean Clair just opened his exhibit named "Melancolia, an history of madness and genius" in Le Grand Palais in Paris. I wish he could have read your blog, it deserves a citation there.

early hours of sky said...

Funny I was just at your blog.
It was showing me how bad my French has become.
Thank you for the complement.