Butte
translated by PLS
my roses are blooming in a stranger’s garden
square, misty hills
three, the number chosen by fate
crossing a feast of superstition
but in the midnight reflections of wine
the fire soars, it’s the kite
not the moon, moonlight will always descend on earth
to distinguish tears from ocean waters
the hand that fumbles the clock case
was you, defining an instant with a second
segmenting dilapidated buildings, from the joy of strumming
of course we are no stranger to each tile
of the death corridor, the eighty centimetres copy and pasted
he’s never deviated
the broadcast spells your name clearly
the axes are imminent, tongues are counting the rosebuds
we are raising glasses, spending springs
and summers in abjection, except autumns and winters
oh forget about it, forget all about it now
i can’t sketch out your chanting shadow
with my blessings, your roses will always bloom
sunshine pierces through sycamore leaves
just like this
to write about you, without a name
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