The Plain Truth
For Iqbal
I speak to you because the night
never falls all by itself
I speak to you because the night
is an object found
coins of the stars
the trapeze missed
by the acrobat in a flowered dress
a mad object at your sensible feet
the finery of the woman passerby whom the police takes away
a mouth to be fed
a mouth to be hollowed out with a cry
the black glass screen in which the painter’s colors rise up
I speak to you because the night
shimmers with a thousand disregarded balconies
some located on the threshold
others beyond any possible possessions
I speak to you because the night
was created by dreams
and not just to dream
I speak to you from a booth that is deaf to all messages
the whitewashed receiver tows bedewed lianas
an existence more marvelously misunderstood than words
I speak to you because the night
is at one and the same time
the black glass screen of magic
and the finery of that woman they take along in vain
and that phantom-booth stranded in the forest
and something more
than time to be deceived
and silence up for sale.
Le signe le plus obscure; translated by Myrna Bell Rochester
