
ROOTS OF THE WORLD
A few burnt up bulrush bushes in the armpit of summer
a few sage bushes, thyme, ferns
we thirsted a lot
we were very hungry
we hurt a lot
we never believed that people
could be so cruel
we never believed that
our hearts could endure so much
with an unshaven piece of death in our pocket.
Where is a wheat ear bending its knee
against the sky?
Night comes late. The shadow doesn’t conceal
the toughness of the stone;
the water canteen of the dead man stuck in the sand;
the moon parked in another shore
serenity stirs it with one of its fingers
to which shore, which serenity?
We thirsted a lot
working on the stone all day long.
The roots of the world hide under our thirst.