'These trees have huge leaves. It is a silent green.'
’Some of them are reddish.’ I looked down, and I
saw wet, fragmented, and red leaves on the ground.
‘There is a small pile. They have fallen so far.’‘The trees
are indifferent to whether their green survives or not.’
The same old man appeared in my mind. He closed
his eyes in a pained wince. ’We live in a sensory world, ’
he said.‘This growing reddishness is more like sorrow
and less like a withered feeling of love.'‘There is something
strange in my printed book. G looks like C, but they have
different colors. These unchanging colors are like gold
and silver.‘That mapped rock can not roll down, but I want to
imagine it loudly cracking in the valley. It has no moss.'
'I don't like to hear any crack. My visual shape is sharply
inflected. This inflection is much more Kiki than Bouba.'
'I want to imagine its shape.' Its mirror image was projected
on a translucent screen of the sky becoming very bright,
and I could not perceive it any longer. A blue wind blew
all the sounds away. The highest tiers of the sky locked
some proud round clouds, and they could not shed their
tears. The rain bruised, blistered, and brushed the leaves.
The rock changed its shape into a scorpion. I was wondering
to know what a gold scorpion might keep between its claws.
The old man opened the eyes, and his blue orbs were rising to
meet the golden ones. His sorrow became a trip back in
time.I opposed my thumb and my forefinger. I used them as
mimicry of the pincer to cut my imagination. It became an outer
reflection of an inner condition. Sadness radiated out away from
my chest, and turned on to become an utter chaos. I would have
liked to say that the rock is not like you. Your face became an
emotional salience map for me. Words like fighting, fleeing, and
mating were coming into my mind. Maybe your smile was not a
sweet one, but so I felt it, when I kissed your lips wanting to know
everything about you. A shadow of a still green sound became
the voice of our love. That rock was like you. This output of feelings
might be infinite. Then, you played them all, and I was conscious of
what you were doing. I felt an urge to say that those red
fragmented leaves were like some phantom limb pains.
Marieta Maglas's Other Poems
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