"Poem"

If Time be a stream
bittered by the wet rocks
swept into sand,
the sorrowful current,
then let me be a beaver
hungry with impatience
and this damned clubtail (dragging like a thick willow clinging to the water)
to stop its flow, to live,
to feel a moment's repose
in this loveliness
forlorn.
These months,
these long weeks
illimitable day hours
like patterns in the cove's
bank or tears on a
glistening face, they pass
unseen. The innocent Moon
and its bed of stars slide
in vain, for my thoughts are
water, both moving and unmoving,
filling the stream bed.


Marcel Xavier