The Ardennes Forest

Cup your hands to scoop up sleepas you would draw a grain of waterand the forest will come: a green clouda birch trunk like a chord of lightand a thousand eyelids flutteringwith forgotten leafy speechthen you will recall the white morningwhen you waited for the opening of the gatesyou know this land is opened by a birdthat sleeps in a tree and the tree in the earthbut here is a spring of new questionsunderfoot the currents of bad rootslook at the pattern on the bark wherea chord of music tightensthe lute player who presses the fretsso the silent resoundspush away leaves: a wild strawberrydew on a leaf the comb of grassfurther a wing of a yellow damselflyand an ant burying its sistera wild pear sweetly ripensabove the treacheries of belladonnaswithout waiting for greater rewardssit under the treecup your hands to draw up memoryof the dead names dried grainagain the forest: a charred cloudforehead branded by black lightand a thousand lids pressedtightly on motionless eyeballsa tree and the air brokenbetrayed faith of empty sheltersthat other forest is for us is for youthe dead also ask for fairy talesfor a handful of herbs water of memoriestherefore by needles by rustlingand faint threads of fragrances—no matter that a branch stops youa shadow leads you through winding passages—you will find and openour Ardennes Forest