Corail, Flower of Wind and Stone

O Corail,
Chessboard of our ventilated weapons,
In the gaze of time perfuming purple rose bushes,
In the reflections of verdant airs,
Contemptuous of cascading sirens
Who would initial the chime of your flamboyant flowers.
City of a thousand perils, entangled in the wind,
City of bluish butterflies flying over
The roof of parallel streets. You would depart under the angelic flame
Of your echoes buried in the wind,
Enhancing the pity, the enchanted charm
Of your summer nobility,
Even immolated in the clouds of your suspended steps.
Flower magnetized by the virginity of the wind,
Far from your sacred cathedral and near liberating souls,
In the verse of your destiny,
I conjugate you,
O Corail, city of mingled stones. Your flamboyant flowers inspired fire
And captured your words in a sea of dreams,
Agitated by the signals of the frozen morning,
At the demise of a bruised day
Triggered in the furrows of tomorrow,
By the nudity of flowers. From your distant past, sighed in cascades,
Like a city of umbrellas relegated to oblivion
Of hoarse seasons.
You enclose yourself in your sky, fragments of your verses,
Poem-songs once chimed,
On the rainbow ribbon of your nephews,
Reaching the wake of the contours. O Corail, Christmas bonfires intertwined with icacques,
Down to the depths of the ravines and on the flank
Of your harvesting waterfalls,
Fulminating at the winding edges of the laurels,
Vitalized symbols of the dews,
Like crimson flying under the destined comfort of your face. The chime of your steps had anchored itself in the camisole of time
By the breath of a stony hour.
As for the early morning, which is no longer the hour,
At the edge of a bruised time,
I fulminate you,
I conjugate you,
O Corail.
You are the agitated smile of sleeping rose bushes,
The manifest brilliance of our wet kisses,
Initialed at the horizon. In the pensive era of your angelic cheek,
Overpowered by the horizontal waves of the crossed sea,
The rhythmic cadence of your furnished breath;
Voluptuousness,
Sublime. The reversals of your repeated edges
Suspended even the sun of my night,
Thus sprang forth the season of crossed dreams,
Of crossings of mad hands,
Ventilated in the middle of the day.
Corail,
I am at the four corners of your entrance,
Proclaiming my poetry. I was returning from Guinea, passing through the entrails,
My voice full of echoes and songs for the dawn,
Hymns hastily consumed at the ultimate borders,
Of rhythmic airs. Like the sweats of the pensive sea,
Sea bathed by dreams hanging from the corset of your breasts,
And the gentle waves of your youth coloring the pages
Of the captivating morning dew. Corail of my parades,
Corail of my picnics,
Corail of my accelerated strolls
In the warming of stone seasons:
Stones to cut, stones to seal. At Diquillon, the Corail sails floated on the pavement of my night
And led their refrains to my summer picnics,
Hikes wet by the smiles of flamboyant flowers
Left to the treasure of sun-lit ideas. Upon my return from the islands, my evening turn aboard,
Where my crossing broken in the rada strike…
I would go there. I will go through four seasons of time,
I will go by the murky voice of a calcined morning,
I will go beneath the edges of your melodious breasts,
Without drum or trumpet,
Under the flames of your woman's body,
In the tone of papers broken in the season of words. At the first bugle call of morning,
The true crow of the rooster triggered not far from the ground floors of your face,
And at the twelve strokes of midnight strung,
My vows cloistered on your pineapple belly will stir. We would direct our steps out of seasonal abysses,
In portions of voices circulating along the path's contours,
At the mouth of the dreamy sea,
In the middle of the night sunlit by the parched air,
Triumphant in the ditch of your stained dress,
Tossed on the flank of the reels of our adored camps,
Torn by the macabre breaths of the evening. Corail, our joys would extend to the border of regular noon,
Corail, key-bearing city,
City of building stones.
You would store yourself,
You would dance the circulating music of eyes and eardrums,
On the luminous plateau of swaying airs
In the balance of places. Marc Jéris Louis-Jean