but when I have

But when I have closed my eyes
When you lie beneath the violets
Or brambles like me
When the clouds above us
Will take shape and crumble like us,
Who will speak for us?
Who will say: ‘‘You, your eyes
Are the colour of dreaming
And young slates
Which tile the Spring of rains.

And you: Your skin
Is the thrush singing,
Your hands my warmth
And summer’s fever
Which bears your name.’’

Time goes where it will
Puts down its costume of jonquils
And water where it will,
We have nothing more
Than a butterfly wing drying
Against night’s windows.
We are nothing more than a dust
Inside the avid lips of the wind.
Only language
Is lasting bronze.

Claude de Burine

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