(dara writes a forest)

(dara writes a forest)

(dara writes a forest)

There is bread on the table. A small, brown fox, crossing the hills with its rapid and hurried pace. You will see when the time of the hunt arrives. You see, said the man, when someone caresses his back with dirty fingers. I want you to visit me in my dreams. This fox, when I walk in the hills, when my step is also fast but without haste, swift because the legs of gazelle, the body of gazelle orders; This fox, I say, appears to me. He points out the flowering of the plums. The white ribbons held in the branches like thin arms. You will eat and drink , he tells me. You will eat with your girl's mouth, with your mute girl's pink mouth, and no one will come to take you home. You will eat in this field until you are satisfied, and the hunting, the seasons, the summer will come with its extraordinary light and alive - have you seen, you have seen that lightning shine? - and you will have done nothing else what to eat, eat with your pink girl's mouth, with your small, pale teeth, orange blossoms on your tongue. I bow to his wisdom. In the dream, naked, wet with violent sweat, I bow before her black snout, before her tail. Let me pet you. Let me feed you with my own hands. I ask you to reveal to me the mystery of the paths. He, who knows everything, lives in a den, he sees the night with his eyes dead. Tell me what I, dumb girl, pink girl, girl devouring lilies and plums, irretrievably unknown. If death is about to catch me. If this climbing me is quicksand. If the bread will rot before touching it. You, who know how the beasts know, that you feed on vermin, small mice, take me into your womb. Open your burrow. Open my eyes to the night and the fields.

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