A Remark

[Lykren]

A Remark

Every word
leaves a wound,
is
a flutter of wings
that muffles breath.

The arch of the leaf
(trembling)
holds the dew
(trembling)

above the river,
who seizes,
like a thirsty old man,
the drop.

At each touch
the surface changes;
at each touch
you shiver, as if

I were the wind,
and you the trees,
letting more go
each second.

The dim clouds
talk
and every word
is a pattern of wings,
leaving no breath.