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The Colour Of The Water
Your colour is the colour of water,
O, body of words,
when water is leaven
or a thunderbolt or fire.
And water blazed,
became a thunderbolt,
became leaven and fire
and water lilies
whitch ask about my pillow
and fall asleep.
O, river of words,
journey with me for a couple of days,
a couple of weeks,
in the leaven of mysteries
to pick up the seas or explore the oysters.
Let us rain rubies and ebony
to learn that magic
is a black fairy
who loves nobody except the sea.
Journey with me,
emerging here and vanishing there.
And ask with me,
O, river of words,
about the shells which die to become
a red cloud
cascading its rain;
about an island
which walks or flies.
And ask with me,
O, river of words,
about a star captive
in the water nets,
carryng under its breasts
my last days.
And ask with me,
O, river of words,
about a stone from which water flows,
about a wave fron which rocks are born,
about the animal of musk,
and a dove of light.
And descend with me
to the nets of darkness
at the bottom
where broken Time lies.
And let words be
a poem that wears
the face of sea.

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