The Bell Voices

Over my blanket –

translucent but heavy,

a bronze blizzard

happens

– the bell voices

are ringing the drawings,

the fragments of cosmos.

No, not the couvre-feu,

and not for the service –

the immortal of our maternity –

a symphony with no notes-

unknown to us,

who know nothing of ourselves.

The bronze voices

cast from Siberian nickels,

Italian liras,

shillings of England

fall from the bell tower – the sky,

over my blanket –

translucent but heavy,

into the amphitheater of my bed,

the matrass aches

in vibrations,

the bellringers continue

over

my roof window

the blizzard

seen between Taurus and Gemini

in metallic brown

sharp

flames.