Words are deer that take flight from death
They feel the cold and bear away afternoon in their eyes
They bear away lilac moments like the Menorca sea
I have never returned to those horizons that were music
Ardent priestesses danced there barefoot
Heady with aromas of the imperial rose
From a corsair boat I would think of their kisses
I would think of a ribbon of oboe notes
Besides labyrinths words are deer
They sip water in autumn's last heartbeat
They become goddesses girded with flowers
They want to grow like patches of rust and unease
While the geranium-pink profile of the wind goes by
Smugglers go by on the sand lands of absence
We are lord of their sadness and of an aging dog
All that awaits me has no name on any map

Translated by Julie Wark