Excerpt from “Contes d’une tête tranchée” in Blessures au vent

XII

Time passes and takes half
her face away
while of the other half so few
words remain
so few images
that she can’t make
a poor book.
So little saliva that scraping dryness
her voice cracks and breaks.
Lost, the dream of the howling seas
storming the jade palaces
lost because of the spell wishing
Shahrayar long life and prosperity.
She can no longer take off in pursuit of
the renegades.
She can no longer advance
she can no longer say if it hurts
she no longer knows if she writes haltingly
or if the words fly into her face.
She no longer knows with which stick
to root around which space.
She writes as if blind
& fear is her companion.

(Book 2)
VII

Through what rip
path of violence and blood
did you enter
Thirst
into this body without shadow?
An oasis quick
a well
a truce.
Death laughter’s sidekick
laughter’s claws
launches its vultures
on my bare shoulders.
If I fall the sun hits
and road snakes assault me
lead my caravans astray.
If toward heaven I attempt
a scream of rage and agony
my call loses itself
in a silence always stronger
than the storm.
But allied to the
quicksands my scream
makes the pathway toward oblivion
impracticable.