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

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