14 mar. 2006

Horses, black. Black iron shoes.
On black capes, shining stains of ink and wax.
Lead skulls - they cannot weep.
Patent-leather souls - looming on the road.
Hunch-backed, nocturnal, wherever they move they ordain
dark rubber silences and fears of fine sand.
They go where they want, concealing in their heads
a vague astronomy of unreal guns.


I feel that approach might be better than the more conventional idea:

Black are the horses.
The horseshoes are black.
On their capes are glistening
stains of ink and wax...

These shorter lines often lead the translator pad, to add words, whereas if I try to cram two lines into one I tend to compress more.

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