It is inscribed

It inscribes itself in the wet soil the end of anoth­er sea­son. Water and death go well togeth­er. The cold that sets in is a slow poi­son that trans­forms the dream of liv­ing things. The snow in some places is already on the ground, but in my city, the con­crete is still warm.

The leaves, as grace­ful corpses, show their veins and bones. The frost attacks the edges and pro­tru­sions first, turn­ing the juices to salt. Soon, there will be no more colours ; there will be only white and mud. At least in some parts of the city, because in oth­ers, there will be no trees, only cold slabs of asphalt, stone and oth­er mate­ri­als unaf­fect­ed by the cycles of the seasons.

Curi­ous­ly, the crows, or the ravens, I don’t know how to tell them apart, are still there. Will Win­ter be mild ? Will Grey pre­vail ? The cal­ci­fied branch­es will hoot like ghosts with­out sheets ?

The end of a sea­son calls for pos­si­ble futures, feed­ing our fears and ulcers. It reminds us of the mys­te­ri­ous cycle that gov­erns our exis­tence, the one we cher­ish because we see no oth­er, the one we invent because if there are oth­ers, we can­not con­ceive them.

I have more and more dif­fi­cul­ty breathing.

I rub myself with camphor.

I walk, and I feed myself as much as pos­si­ble with the colours of what is abandoned.

I walk with­out chas­ing my tail. Awk­ward­ly, tail in French can mean dick. My “tail,” any­way, has nev­er real­ly been a marathon run­ner. My mind remains phal­lic, how­ev­er. It is always there to give me plea­sure and to seed my hours.

It inscribes itself in the wet soil the reminder of our present. We don’t need sea­sons when the soul drinks in the poet­ry of our aston­ish­ment of liv­ing. When we think about it, and only when we don’t lock our­selves in any log­ic, can we per­haps – I say per­haps – under­stand what it is to live and to die.



  • Luce

    Luce %2021/%11/%23 %09:%Nov 0

    Quelles photos magnifiques! Autant de poésie dans l’image que dans les mots! Merci Guy. Bonne journée!