The viperling

 

It glides against the pebble moss as day winks through the shutter. A drop of water might coif it, two twigs clothe it. Soul in pain from a bit of earth and a patch of boxwood, it is, at the same time, their accursed and declivitous tooth. Its counterpart, its adversary, is the early morning that, after having sampled the quilt and having smiled at the sleeper’s hand, licks its fork and dashes to the ceiling of the room. The sun, come second, embellishes it with a delicate lip.

 

The viperling will remain cold unto numbrous death, for, being of no parish, it is murderous before all.

 

 

René Char