Yekta (France)
The Souls Venerer
(6)
night sees trees of chalk grow
on the blackboards of condemned schools
words grip on to each branch
it's me pursuing the book of my birth
among the dilapidated rooms I take
balancing lessons in the constellation of thoughts
I have learnt nothing from their handbooks
not even a phrase to contain me
not even the secrets of appearance
nicknames follow me I repeat stories to myself
but I know nothing of the being for whom I pray in the debacle
I am only an accent in the infinite language of the wind
come to blow the ashes of the dead
a sound distorted on the grain of doors
that I pass through without respite the better to lose myself
I encircle the invisible I cross-rule the silence
and so I live in the sketch bereft of a centre
the unconscious of the signs
Translation by Jan Owen
“Broken branches for the stranger” (Extracts)
Copyright © PETRA Éditions, June 2018
(6)
night sees trees of chalk grow
on the blackboards of condemned schools
words grip on to each branch
it's me pursuing the book of my birth
among the dilapidated rooms I take
balancing lessons in the constellation of thoughts
I have learnt nothing from their handbooks
not even a phrase to contain me
not even the secrets of appearance
nicknames follow me I repeat stories to myself
but I know nothing of the being for whom I pray in the debacle
I am only an accent in the infinite language of the wind
come to blow the ashes of the dead
a sound distorted on the grain of doors
that I pass through without respite the better to lose myself
I encircle the invisible I cross-rule the silence
and so I live in the sketch bereft of a centre
the unconscious of the signs
Translation by Jan Owen
“Broken branches for the stranger” (Extracts)
Copyright © PETRA Éditions, June 2018