THE TREE

This tree and its simmering
sombre forest of calls,
of cries,
is hearted in obscurity:

vinegar and milk, the sky, the sea,
the curdy firmanent,
conspire in its shimmering,
lodged in the shadowy, congealed heart.

A heart which keens: a hard star
which splits and rockets in the sky:
the pure sky, which itself splits
with the resounding weight of its king,
who clips its currency, smelting the tree
of night in the windy parliament.

(Adapted from Antonin Artaud)