The wind
Sway the green of the hill
As the fingering enjoy the silence’s strings
The wind
wheel the top of the trees, far off,
As the cords resound inside the wood’s grain
The wind,
tear up the sky’s corner,
greens waves that never burst , never ran onto a reef,
as the waved hand strike the amber harp
without loosing the music’ wood.
The wind
Sweep away the careless, who ‘s in the habit of the free zed sun
so loosed hours under the zenith, sweltering, with dried dust
in the narrowed alleyways provides the precious shade
The wind
rush into ,
myriad of green leaves stricken in a whirlwind,
blowed off the tree , suddenly bended
as the strings of the chord
unlucky sounds flying off the wood
releasing a wild muse, strangled, harassed, rebelled
and the hairs of the growing muse , strangle
Inside the fanned notes of the wood
Scrolls sweep her along
then, she appears
she twist, sensual, overwhelming the space
The wind
accord his rebel vocalize
Bewitching, seizing the time by his ears.
The wind
rush into the doors Conner’s
crack the shutters hanging, clinging on the wall
bang the shutters being caught by tornado
as these strings, seized by nimble fingers
give rise, alive, suddenly, another slender muse
Gitanna, clasped, arms wrestling, heaving herself up, arms and backache , writhe in dance
Then the strings rush into the corners of the soul the heart is heckled, buffeted by this wind
the heart, seized by the black eyes, black look the lively muse is giving ,
As her heels are clicking invisible speedily fingers, disappears , into there own beats
Out of breath in the pace of the strings
Hoarsest song altering sharps sings , fragile
Then suddenly,
no more blow, night is falling,
the gitana’ s dress evaporate in the sky
disappear in the soothing star’s night
Leave the win joining again his silence.
the wind
Of a strings lover
shake upside down the sails
of a ship, docked with the hill,
in this land without shade
In this win’s land.
« Le vent », Anna Plissonneau,
Essai version Anglais, 11/08/2011 Shreveport Louisiane USA