Translated from French by Marilyn Hacker The outflow of your drifting— up until now you’ve slid along the road I would like in a faraway language to tell you what I don’t understand ** Nothing pulls you back from doubt any longer from obsession from seeding your body is amnesia plural futile limpid a disappearance stands in for space stands in for an emptiness to circle round ** Not visible the sense slumbers teeters on the edge you expect nothing of the hours not the days returned not daybreak you expect ** There had been no days without sand and you thought the sun inexhaustible you had not seen: the lantern is cold ** Leaving you clamber up your confusion on the cord of forgetting Leaving is all of life still behind you ** What remains to begin each morning at the same hour like starting from zero to answer time’s memory loss and the drift of ages your mother, trembling the genealogy of the worst the disaster of the gods to finish counting the remaining hours ** You can’t bring yourself to let go of the sky’s edge at nine o’clock this morning you hold the sailboat’s breath head for the narrowest path to redraw the mirage ** You ask yourself what is a place of your own if you must fade yourself out unweight yourself of promises yesterday you wanted to know if and now you no longer know why you should have dived in with no expectations
Originally published in the January 2019 issue of Words Without Borders. © Samira Negrouche. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Marilyn Hacker. All rights reserved.