The shadows hide
in the cracked skin of my fingers.
These are gnarled branches of a cedar
lonely on top of a mountain.
At her feet lies motionless
a snowy landscape
furrowed by the muffled footsteps of a she-wolf.
These are waving branches
stirred by an agonizing omen
towards the horizon from which rises the night
and my hands are leaves
that the seasons harass
without being able to wrest them.
Yet the tree
appears bare and leafless to me.
Where you hiding, lone she-wolf?
Open your mouth and fill it with dirt
inject into my roots
your poisonous breath
that gently
help me close my eyes
and sleep my lymph.
Me dead I will no longer be a tree
but I will return to be this robin
who once flew
on the flower meadows, on my youth
on my hands
who were trying to catch him.
Fallen on the ground
I will fly to this nest
where one day I saw
the glory of light.
But if this nest
was just an illusion
of memory prey to the seasons
I will be the robin
fallen under the tree
and I will return to feed the earth
dyeing it red
with the few feathers
which will remain of me.
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Image: Lydie Allaire
