La Mémoire Et La Mer

The tide, I have it in my heart
Rising up like a sign
I die from my little sister, from my childhood and from my swan
A boat, it depends how
It's moored at the port just in time
It cries from my firmament
Light years away and I leave some behind
I am the Jersey ghost
The one who comes on show-off nights
To throw mist at you in a kiss
And pick you up in his rhymes
Like the July fishing net
Where the lone wolf shone
The one I saw shining
On the sandy fingers of the earth

Remember that sea dog
That we set free on parole
And howls in the desert
With seaweed from a necropolis
I'm sure that life is there
With its flannel lungs
When it cries from those times
The cold all gray that calls us
I remember the evenings there
And the sprints won on the foam
This foam from the horses
At the edge of the rocks that burn
O angel of lost pleasures
O rumors of another habit
My desires from then on are nothing
But a sorrow of my solitude

And the devil of conquered nights
With his pale rescues
And the shark of paradises
In the wet mossy environment
Come back green girl from the fjords
Come back violin of fiddling
In the port the horns blare
For the return of comrades
O rare scent of salt marshes
In the fiery pepper of chapped skin
When I went, geometrizing, My soul in the hollow of your wound
In the disorder of your ass
Stuck in sheets of fine dawn
I saw another stained glass
And you green girl, my spleen

The shells representing
Under the broken liquid spotlights
Play the castanets so much
That it looks like pale Spain
Gods of granite, have mercy
On their vocation for adornment
When the knife comes to intrude
In their castanet face
And I saw what we sense
When we sense the glimpse
Between the blood shutters
And the globules form
A blue mathematics, On this never still sea
From which slowly rises
This memory of the stars

This rumor that comes from there
Under the friendly arc where I blind myself
These hands that flatter me
These rumbling hands that moo
This rumor follows me for a long time
Like a beggar under the anathema
Like the shadow that wastes its time
Drawing my theorem
And under my red makeup
Comes beating like a door
This rumor that walks upright
In the street, to dead music
It's over, the sea, it's over
On the beach, the sand bleats
Like infinite sheep
When the shepherdess sea calls me