Triptych of the Orient
A thousand miles from the coast
Pain shrouded in gauze
Without respite in the middle of the waves
The swell unfurls its soul.

Riding the cloud is no easy feat
Just like growing wings
When the Immaculate of our orifices
Unfold on the cardinal wall
The forked abundance of our chattering tongues.

Single obstacle to stability
It's time for short grass
For a darkness offering its fogs
To the cause heard
For having been faithful.

It was cold in this pignatelle
Without seeing the horizon
It had been agreed
To face the moment
In the emerging green spring.

The magical herbarium
Curled up at the bottom of the trunk
Let it appear
By a very round moon
The heart wary of remaining alone.

The cardinality of the place
Abhors rough logs
Arranged in disorder on the rasputitsa
Sweet flowers far away forever
Codicils of the complaint.

The pretense of retirement
Train our vulgar stories
Towards the sight of tears
While cackling at the auction
The wild geese pass.

Poor puppets
Uncapped with teeth
The desire took them
To lift across
The piers of the drifting bridge.

Living greedily
Dressing over the years
Omen sad passion
When come and go
The sentient males of the faribole.

Unique by grace
To run your hand
On the slope of a goat's skin
It was easy for us
To enter the fumigation hut.

Abrupt peril
Ocean scents
At the sight of the clouds tearing each other apart
Appeared action diverticulum
The empty space of presence.

Close the work
Will take place at the great crossroads of open air
Facing the azure
Waiting for sailor's faith
The slightest atom of common sense.

1435

( Work by Jean-Claude Guerrero )