This voice which speaks to me is brief

it wakes me not
it caresses me not

it kisses not my mouth.

It sways in the adrenaline of a rope walker
in the courage of a lion tamer.

It searches for a hiding place
in synagogues, mosques, churches.

It seeks punishment, forgiveness, reason
in the seven deadly sins.
It goes to voodoo meetings, to questionable places.
It awaits the body-scourging North wind.

This voice which speaks to me also shouts,
but I keep silent, so as not to get out of tune
not overflow in affection,
not be unhappy.

Sometimes this voice doesn't even know I'm here
for I keep my feet on the ground
to awaken it not
to reconize not the grave tones
nor get lost on the sharp harmonies
whose rhythms are unknown to me
and that could become hymns
without my even knowing.

This voice which speaks to me is addicting.
Full of compassion, it silences me.
It scatters my seeds and reaps reasons.

This voice which speaks to me frightens me
it wants my flower, my wisdom.
It does not water, fertilize or plow my ground.
It rotates not my chakras.
It magnetizes me not, but leaves me in a trance.

This voice which speaks to me
keeps me away from reveries.
It whispers me not
it  licks not up from me the dew
nor covers up my body, nor watches my sleep.

This voice which speaks to me
is heard only when it's gone,
in the silence right after the echo, the sigh, the relief
of my fulfilled passion.
But it's not always that I want to hear, even in death
the things she says.
For my voice is always silence.
In life, in death
and in any other place.