midnight

It is delicate, midnight.
I hear the knots of the rosebush:
sap pushing upward rising to the rose.

I hear
the scorched stripes of the regal tiger:
they do not let him sleep.

I hear
a canto of one
as it grows in the night
like a dune.

I hear
my mother sleeping
with two breaths.
( I have slept in her,
for five years.)

I hear the Rhone
that descends and carries me like a father,
blind with blind foam.

And afterwards I hear nothing,
but keep falling
on the walls of Arles
full of sunlight…

Gabriela Mistral

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