Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Our two countries are sleeping.
They are connected by a stone stairway
leading to the dawn
perched on your shoulder.  

The night is a guest
in this forest.
The mouth having drunk
relives your name.  

The mirror and the river are
calling each other
through the room. Two lights
caught in dark shelves.  

Our two centuries are sleeping.
The sound of birds in the fountain
is borne by the afternoon light. 

The night’s lamp discovers
a body
that sometimes moves
in its dream.

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