Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien
our love does not need defending; it is its own weapon
and we need only to turn it toward our enemies
to be sure we do not become the victims of its crooked
arrows, that are fired endlessly into the cold, cold wind.

our love is the wheat roots that stay white while the wheat heads turn
from green to gold - it keeps its brightness by keeping in the
dark - where there is wetness, where there is silence, where our love
steals the warmth from all that the sun kisses above the earth.

there is a trail that could take us south tomorrow and when
it ends there'll be a river we can follow and on
the way, my beloved, we will have nothing to say to

each other, but it would not seem like a long walk as we
watched the river foam over the large rocks in its bed and heard
it sing its love song loudest where there are large rocks in its bed.

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