Post-scriptum

Go away from me awaiting with no mouth;

I was born at your feet, but you have lost me quite;

My fires marked out their kingdom overmuch;

On your butcher’s block my treasure’s been poured out.

The desert like asylum with mellow herbal teas

Nominated me never, gave me back again never.

Go away from me awaiting with no mouth;

The trefoil of passion turns to iron in my hand.

Stuporous air opens up to me its byways,

Time shall prune away my face little by little,

Like a horse that’s endless in a bitter work.

René Char