to paris, like a sea creature taken
by the wind, then snapped back.
the hidden sun here knows not
my hotness for earth, which i keep
closed and secret.
you, who are so believable,
eavesdrops on all the languages,
tangible and intangible. you who hold the
infinite pace that spreads, and spreads.
like death or Rodin’s garden in winter.
like your slow breaths in the night,
such faint music. how to transpose it?
in what time and which key? better
to let the silent stay, i think, and keep it
as a strange&wild phenomenon in the
middle of spring, disguised as rock or
a climbing scrub. mute like the hours.
‘love’ is not. ‘eternal’ is not.
you do not obey to meaning.