The scattered term

If you shout, the world is quiet: it goes far off with your own world.

Always give more than you can take back. And forget. Such is the holy way.

Who converts thorns into blossoms rounds off the lightning.

The thunderbolt has only one house, it has several paths. Self-built house, crumbless paths.

Small rain gladdens foliage and passes unnamed. We might be dogs commanded by serpents, or silence what we are.

Evening liberates itself from the hammer, man keeps chained to his heart.

The bird under earth sings the mournfulness upon earth.

You alone, wild leaves, fulfill your lives.

A matchstick is enough to enflame the beach whither a book comes to die. The tree of open wind is solitary. The grasp of the wind even more so.

How bloodless would be incurious truth were it not for this distant breaker of ruddiness where nohow are graven the doubt and dit of the present. We advance, abandoning any word while promising ourselves that.

René Char