Sometimes I translate the trees
The fever of the wind
An older voice that tastes my body.

But looking at your lips
I hold in remembrance the space
The space that wrinkles like a father.

Also, the ear like an origin
I hold so dear and in centuries old.
Every time the world opens for me
Untenable and deaf as grain
I question the light and fall.

From the weariness the mother
And as emphatic as the immoderate night,
I carry
With hands that hardly choose me
The astonishment inside of you
Nothing. Not suspecting
How a woman emulsifies with blood of a bird.

Translation: Gust Van Hove, under the authority of Roger M.J. de Neef