Celle qui fait danser les voyelles et ouvrir les roses de minuit
Celle qui traverse les miroirs sans les briser
Ni la lame souriante, ni le feu consolant
Pas même le vide qui appelle depuis le fond des abîmes…
I am that hue you condemn to the windowless attic of your heart
The one that makes vowels dance and midnight roses open
The one that crosses mirrors without shattering them
Without prior gesture, without warning to reality’s dark sentinels
I abolish with vivid and gleaming ink the chimeras within
The obscene shadows weaving their webs in my cathedral-chest
The sobs petrified into stalactites of salt
All this fossilized night weighing on my ribs like a sunken world
Today I fear nothing living
Neither the smiling blade nor the consoling fire
Not even the void calling from the depths of the abyss…
But I still fear encountering your liquid rancor
Your moods of acid violet mist that seep into every word
This sickly purple oozing from the attic where you confine me
This wounded color that is my secret name
And which you refuse to speak in the light
