The perfect music

It punctually rises to the throat

thin water tide

rigid, gaseous perhaps,

acute nostalgia of something

that I don’t even know,

blind born creature to which nobody

can explain the shiver of the sun,

in dark peace in the night.

I’ll have to find myself again

With no breath in the blue at the zenith,

and a dazzling glacier,

I’ll have to count again

the very small fingers

of a baby son in my arms

in order to remember

(mystical relief)

of just being blind,

just deaf

in the infinite perfect music

April 3, 2005