Well known August
Always begotten
The sign: the dry mat of clover
The signal: a shag of brunet
grass
As scorched as the nape of my
neck
This is the realization of a
dream
That one day, the grass will die
That one day, we will weave it
into mats
That one day, we will ask
“What else is left?”
August writes its poem:
A woman must leave something
behind
A man must justify his rage
The turn of August brings this
down
This passing, this burnt
redemption
Of all that fades away
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