Pierces the strata of my dream.
Like a needle of fire
Followed by a luminous thread,
Sews together the squares of scattered fabrics
And leads me to see the original piece.
The flash of desire is pure energy
Every short strip of dream it crosses
Gives it a particular color,
A name of its own : secret, ambition, creation,
And the being that I am,
Is sewn with desire,
Of desires it is woven,
Under this comet which pierces,
Under this river that irrigates the plots,
Since at the end of desire,
There is nothing but another desire,
It pours itself into a situation that it will come to color, invigorate
Until making it bloodless and withered because the ground-recipien of desire is exhausted,
Desire emerges pure and continues to meander to new ground,
If I observe the serpentine of desire,
If I feel its acidity,
The hook no longer happens
It pierces a little, here and there,
The ground, in hydrophobic layer,
Encourages it to ride, elsewhere, lower,
To return to the valley.
And I age at the rhythm of my land, without being scarified from the channels of desire.
In its ethereal forms, however, it remains.
I do not feverishly stalk it : here, I cannot,
©firstname.lastname@example.org – Dec 2022
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