ÉDOUARD GLISSANTYour hand stirs these murmurs together like something new
You marvel that you burn more than ancient incense
***When the noise of the woods runs dry in our bodies
Surprised, we read this wing of red earth
Anchored in shadow and silence
We make sure to gather the agave flower
The burn of the water where we place our hands
You, more distant than the light-mad acoma
In the woods where it acclaims any sun, and I
Who restlessly hound that wind
Where I drove the intractable past
***The mountain water is more solemn
Where dreams do not drift
All the green falls in naked night
What leaf dares its petulance
What birds stroke their wings and cry out
Thick, hailed out of the mud, my country
Uprooted season that returns to its source
A solitary red wind sends up its flower
In the swell that has no depth and you
Among the frangipani trees, unraveled worn out
Where do you find these words you color
With earthen blood on the withered bark
You cry your fixity to every accursed country
O navigatrix is this the remembrance?
***Sadder than the night when the agouti stops short
His right paw lacerated by a thorn
As day arrives he shakes with stubborn scorn
He licks the wound and closes up the night
Likewise I lean unto my words, assemble them
In the windswept space you came to rest your head
That silence where you dedicate your feasts
Your vigil and your care, your dream your storms
The volley of your play with what goes wrong
The bright blue sparks of time you splash us with
My words, then, make me burn mahogany