[It sometimes seemed] Poem by Martine Audet

[It sometimes seemed]



It sometimes seemed to us we had loved,
that our outstretched arms,
the crows' only feature,
breathing wind,
its glassfuls of sun or liquid,
its insults too.

For what hope?
what truth buried
in our presence alone?

We repeat we do not exist.
Our brow burned a little.

Translated by Amanda Horn

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