Facial bones directed towards corners.
Here lies the kingdom of this world.
The trees’ tumescence expands, invades the camp
Behind which the sun fades out, the chaff and
Everything else can see us.
Monk’s garb in the light rustles
Against the wind, when the voice breaks down
Over the plateau we are thinking about,
Without ourselves, as if something took place,
Had its time and could exist
In our shape.
Nothing exists in our shape.
This is what the garb is silent on, the plateau meditates on,
The time sees. Standing still the tumescence
Moves, the bones fall down the steps
© translated by Adam Zdrodowski