(Untitled) (Untitled)

night promises to be long there we'll remain alone or maybe there we'll never be lonely artists of the impossible we hardly belong to ourselves our shadows weave the illusion of our dreams and feed with slow movements they shriek across an instant night's envelope is torn they go mad and search about in their blazing heart they need to hear once more silence's echo turned to stone (Translated from the French by Peter Thompson)

Jan 20, 2010 / Books & the Arts / Amina Saïd