Maxime Berclaz

The moan of the bronze horns,
a vagrant gate in the sea.

The sailors think a wolf has wandered on board,
they say it spends night hunting for its eyes.

The blind moon hangs over the pillars
and the burnt remains
of the cedars,
the starless island lopes past the ship
in a storm
of black silk feathers.

Cut open the coin purse,
a red crow named mutiny will love itself until the end of time