You will know on the threshold of your door what remains to be lived.
Edmond Jabès, Le Seuil Le Sable

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You say that you are higher than the sea.
You say that the bodies have been uncovered. You put them there. 
You say that the park is fit for the sheep, but the sheep aren’t made for the park.
You say that the mahoganies drink the water of the river.
You say that the boulders are black and covered with lichen.
You say that the hands are scraped at the same time as the rock.
You say that from memory the mornes have always risen above the land.
You say that it was the dwindling cyclones that blew the sand up.
You say that time melded with time and the burnt wood was decomposing in ways only it knew.
You say that the buffets of lightning and the accumulation of crabs made surprising constellations, and that the sky picked up the trees to strike the land.
You say that the sea defamed the turtle and that the neighbor prays fervently to her god.
You say that the turtle isn’t to blame, that the sea is something, and the human grows weary trying to unearth it.
You say that the suffering comes from there.
You say that hands can do nothing, shredded as they are, from the movement’s repetition.
You say that the country is like the leaf at the end of its stem.
You say that it’s enough to want to say it.
You say that under the bodies there are other bodies in a sarcophagus of shells.
You say that the beaches aren’t beaches.
You say that the tuff and the andesite and the algae and the petchary are a language unto themselves.
You say that whether seated or standing you touch the same depths, that the flower blooms through its own song.
You say that the instrument enshrouded the wind.
You say that the drumming came from inside.
You say that from memory the water has always been gushing forth.
You say that of the cliff there are the heights and the depths. 
You say that the roots were running without shadows.
You say that all the pain was there.
You say that someone had come.
You say that there had been many overtures.
You say that the bodies gathered in the silence, but that the hands had already betrayed them.
You say that it was an additional pain.
You say that the fossils were equal to the sea.
You say that if you move the tree it lives or it doesn’t live.
You say that the birds like the fish and you don’t finish the sentence.
You say that the night belonged to the day and that the moon had a silent voice that everyone had forgotten.
You say that in hindsight and you sit down.
You say that the tree is made of its bark and its fruit and its leaves and that the flower belongs to it all the way through to its secret. 
You say that certain trees cry before the moon.
You say that the cutlass entered into your dream.
With bark you made tea.
With the flower you cured a wound.
With leaves you made a house.
You buried the root in earth at the edge of the river. 
You weren’t expecting exactly that shade of blue. 
You cut into the moon. 
You looked at a toppled rock.
You gathered floating wood and you gave it as an offering.
You say that the dream is not a dream.
You say that in the mangrove you had read the book of all times sake.
You say that the error had drained you of all hope that one other time. 
You say that at the bleeding of the day but you don’t explain what.
You say that you saw on the same branch the thrush with the thick beak and the sugarbird. 
You say that the karouj flew about here and there.
You say that yellow like red has been dropped into your eyes.
You say that it was two wings that shared the wind.
You say that the sea rose nevertheless.
You say that she too had wings and that the little lands like the big ones were submerged there. 
You did not cry. 
You did not shout.
You said only the hour is its own.
You say that from time to time.
You say that the pot boiled over and the bodies were burned.
You say that the hands carried them.
You say that the beaches are communal graves
You say that love is a joyous opening.
You say that it wasn’t worth it to formulate words for what you felt.
You show your empty hands because you’re not accusing anyone.
You give the name that was given to you.
You only give that.
You say that a name is not important. 
You say that the body has its own life and consumes itself and flowers by itself, and that it doesn’t need a name or a referent.
You say that the traces disappear with the song of the turtles.
You say that the terns and the pea doves wrapped the sky in a net and took it far away to protect it.
You say that the dream kills the dream.
You say that the bird was the first to sing.
You say that in every mind there is a bird and a sea and an interlacing of roots of water and of earth.
You say that every mind is a loss and you sit down facing the tide.
You say that you say nothing, you fall silent.