Sparkles in the forest.

Red they glow.

A red glow. A furtive ray rocking the grove. Silky and shiny sateen is,
unnerving the needles of the vast pine wood.

Sateen tainting carmine amid the grass and on the moss. Lit carmine burning in the hollow of the ivy. Carmine Carampangue of satiny blood smoothing the satin skin. The skin that strokes, snakes and seeks caressing the emerald with the tail of the dead, the sparkling of the green foliage lashed violently by the wind at the edge of the blue ell of the chasms, here at the beginning of the valley.

Sateen is made of blood and shiny and of treacherous velvet the fabric of the figures that now
flame in the sun like knife light.
Terrified under the splendor, in the blades cut by the beam, figuring holy cavities amid
the murmuring nets of the forest.
What silence.
Of green firmament or inner bell.
The woman pricks up her ears in amazement. Flame is the dress that covers her, fire the stunning skirt.

The humid rips in the lamé, pure spell of reflection, turning into blood the green virginity of the forest. The lamé splits in the green, creating blue flares in its mirror. In the simile, the bristling of a millenary, radiant tapestry:

Long drool of a silenus, Beelzebub, crawls, and the forked garrulous currents of an agitated mob of curling snakes
Oh, the Leontine and Egyptian eyes of hieratic herons and owls.

Everything is velvet.

The sinuous mane of an ancient woman
the black silk of a vibrant butterfly
the sacred muscles of nocturnal panthers.

Iridescent volcanoes curl their spit in the distance
in the distance
like large, huge comet tails.

Bloody and golden the beauty in her memory.

Translation by Judith Filc