IN JERUSALEM

In Jerusalem, I mean inside
old ramparts,
I walk a time to another
without a souvenir
which m'oriente. The prophets there share
the history of sacred… They ascend to heaven
slaughtered and return less and less sad,
because the love
and peace are holy and they will come to the city.
I go down a slope, muttering:
How storytellers to agree not they
on the words of light in a stone?
The wars they leave a stone buried?
I walk in my sleep.
Eyes wide open in my thinking,
I do not see people behind me. Nobody front.
All this light is mine. I walk.
I m'allège, steals
and transfigures me.
The words springing grass
in the mouth prophetic
Isaiah: "Believe in order to be saved."
I walk as if I was another than me.
My wound is a rose
white evangelical. My hands
these are two doves
on the cross that whirl in the sky
and cover the earth.
I do not. I fly and I transfigures.
No place, no time. Who am I then?
I am not myself in this place of the Ascension.
But I say:
Only the Prophet Muhammad
spoke Arabic literature. "And after that?"
After? One soldier shouted to me suddenly:
Even you? Did I not killed?
I say: You killed me… but, as you,
I forgot to die.