I do not want time to mark the passage of the verse that explodes in me, air does not need any tuning fork, my voice is the wind.
I do not want and I do not believe
that time calls for light every morning,
that the stars come out at dusk,
because I carry them inside.
No, I'm not going to do it anymore
when I look back
I don't see anything
and it's not a question of giving
time to time, time to time...
If there is something that is mine,
it is this inexorable beat that measures me
with tiny bullets in my heart;
I pull the trigger
so that it shoots
as soon as possible that thirst for feelings
that was left unsatisfied by so much waiting.
No one waits anymore.
No, I'm not going to do it anymore...
And what does it matter to me
that prudence requires that time be parceled out
to burn through stages in moderation;
years are hours.
After the night
I will not let the hours return to their place,
geography is no longer immortal.
Fire is order.
No, I'm not going to do it anymore...

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