Wood And Shavings

I want to keep quiet about the hornets
because they are easy to spot.
Also the ongoing revolutions
are not dangerous.
Death in the wake of the noise
has always been decided.

But before the mayflies and the women
beware of the Sunday hunters
the beauticians, the undecided, well-meaning,
met with no contempt.

From the forests we carried brushwood and trunks,
and the sun didn't rise for a long time.
Intoxicated by the paper on the assembly line,
I don't recognize the branches
nor the moss fermented in darker inks,
nor the word cut into the bark,
true and presumptuous.

leaf wear, banners,
black posters . . . At day and night
trembles, under these and those stars,
the machine of belief. But in the wood
while it's still green, and with the bile,
as long as it's still bitter, I am
willing to write what was in the beginning!

Make sure you stay awake!

Follow the trail of the chips that flew
the swarm of hornets, and at the well
resists the lure
that once weakened us, the hair.