The book I am writing
Is a grave much anticipated.
Were I to make a list of what
Remains to me
It would be this:
THERE IS NO BODY LEFT.
Maybe writing a poem was the best thing
Even though poetry is good for nothing.
At times I thought
I was outside of History
Escaping from hard times
Just a damn illusion!
I succeeded at silence like the others
But I could not forget
The sound of each letter.
I know that a poem
Will not justify my choice
And that death
Cannot vanquish History.
So then
Why do I fear this book?

Translation: 2010, Constance Lardas