Won’t country nights be lonely nights? You said.

How could they?

The cattle are out of the barn,

Over the dew cooled grass,

Of this December night.

You would have loved the shed,

And the pond where I throw rocks,

To make the mirror ripple you ten folds.

It is easier in the dark,

But every now and then,

The clouds unshroud the sky.

And light is all but a liar,

Far traveler, the star’s death.

Ambitions arrive years later

And I have my own.

In this little corner, I leave the water’s edge, lily, cricket,

No hair, no leg dancing under the surface,

For the opaque shadow of the inside.

There are no lonely nights,

I say when one sits down to write.

I do so to conjure you, I say.

I say; how can loneliness fester in a house so full of your mother poise?

By the window, by the door,

The songs crawl out, looking like you and wet as the pond,

Soft as newborns, reborn, reformed,

Aborted a dozen times too.

I light a candle on the desk,

The dark’s cool touch scampers,

To the lights’ sweep over the room,

Where you suddenly lack again and pages are just that.

The wick’s timid dance billows,

A hand on the wall,

Waiting for yours.

Amalou Ouassou