Three flies, woken by the sun
on a white, illuminated wall,
leap like the hands of a florist wrapping
bouquets. They remind me of a knife
thrower, who performs with five in the air.
Is the quantity restricted?
Catch and don't think. Weigh me.
I'll run away from you like water and press you
like ice if you sizzle too much.
Look at them on the white wall.
Three trees from the new shoots
of a cedar. From the corner of a cube.
And, if you look closely, from
a gully.
TRANSLATED BY BRIAN HENRY