—  For Charles Pictet

There was a scent of lemon, cedar,
almonds in bloom filling the air
long roads of dust waning away
—  It was all about the wind,
everything dissipated,
everything was like breath.
And the sky was warm as blood
at dusk, since to forget someone
you loved felt like the slaughter
of a lamb. No one could tell
if God foresaw that pain
in the finitude of all things,
or if pain came as a surprise
with black draperies, flowers,
cries —  If he howled himself
to the center of himself then,
growing roots of Silence.
Had he dreamt, in his retreat,
that one would listen closely
to the wind — believing
it carried more light
than sorrow, when crossing
the frontiers of a body ?
Had he dreamt of Abel before
he came with that beast,
had he seen him leaning
on her neck, whispering
her low, nonetheless
—  letting her go ?
“This is for you,
this is my full heart”,
said the youngest, and
that echo cut through
the very stone, the willow trees,
the streets of all cities,
the high offices full
of secret arrangements,
the knife of Cain and the
constellation of The Snake.
The night filled with perfume,
humming a pact timeless as air,
and God held on to this tune
—  beyond all repair.