The Book Of Night - Four Poem by Daniel Brick

Interlude

I swear the nights the nights are too much
Nights when poems are made and unmade
Nights when we are tempted
to leave the substance for the Shadow
Nights that I press secretly against my heart
Andre Breton

The crescent moon is as bright as the sword
of a samurai master. It has already sliced the clouds
from the sky, they tumbled haphazardly below the horizon.
The sky is empty, only its dark blue color attests
to its existence. But its grandeur extends
for one thousand feet across the rocky terrain:
a blue cushion punctured by gray knives.
The air that bleeds invisibly rises to sustain us.

Nothing is left here to disturb the scene's calm,
unless my Faustian thoughts cause such harm.
But night itself empowers me to declare an Interlude,
a respite from effort, even the effort to be silent.
Let be. My will I suspend. It will not resist.
My thoughts I abandon. They know their way home.
Together we have created this nocturnal moment
with help of beautiful language. It is enough.
Let all of them assume the posture of statues,
they can become frozen music for a while.