Surgir les morts

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Vous etiez venue par les cieux clements des mots. Les mots a leur essence c'etaient les maux a leur ancrage. L'ancrage du fleuve et du pere avait irrigue la terre d'enfance. La campagne mangeait les rustres, de l'aurore au coucher. A quelle racine vont nos ligneux, au fond d'une eau opaque ? Mangrove humide et mangrove obscure, le passe hantait le present. La blessure est parfois si profonde qu'on ne peut l'atteindre, comme la grimace d'un agonisant.