
by Catherine de Vinck.
Words like crumbs
fallen from the table
brushed aside by impatient hands.
Words hard like pebbles under the shoe.
Words found in the dust bin
with apple cores and bones.
Is this the world?
There is another language,
other sounds, other speeches.
The crow in its electric black suit
speaks an image of feathers
each one polished to a dark shine.
The wild lily sings its orange song
to the wind while the trees clack
their wood, celebrating their rooted life.
Is this the world?
Other channels open
corridors to the heart of the matter
to a place of evidence
where all waiting ends.
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