To erase all till nightfall, to cancel, disown myself.
To be immersed in you,
To vouch for your laughter.
To let the seasons flow until the day staggers
Or falls to its knees.
I want the night to die.
I want to die in you.
Summer will then be ashes,
A charred morning will lie along the shore.
And I, for loving you, will have
My hands flecked with salt spray,
My lips bruised by blades of grass.
— Françoise Delcarte, from “Here I desire nothing …,” Belgian Women Poets: An Anthology, edited by Judy Cochran ( Peter Lang Publishing Inc., 2000)