Covering the clay altars
of our temples
with old and new faces,
we secretly pretend
we don't miss a thing,
we don't hurt at all.
In some propitious seasons
we are happy...
In the morning,
on the edge of a second,
we find ourselves naked and old,
but we become alive over the day
because we are suddenly cold.
Our souls are so ancient
they are accustomed to
the memory of the angels' wounds
that love leaves behind...
Our flight is just a stripe
over the sand castle
we build every night,
when we pray
or we have
a beautiful dream.