During the warm season you dance at the foot of the trees in the
sacred forest. Sometimes you pressed against the trunk and circled
it in your arms. Your dress, too, was made of leaves and flowers.
So that laying down in the grass you seemed naked.
I was the one who, standing, stretched his shadow across your nakedness.
night I had a strange dream. At the top of a tall pylon, with radar
and antennae sticking out all over, you lay yourself bare among
the brambles and the entire sky suddenly abandons its stars to
concentrate its sparkle on your naked skin and to then communicate
instructions to all mortals. Anachronistic was this dream, but
who would believe the earth where we walk, this blue globe you're
in your hands, is turning.
the French by Dawn Cornelio