The Horizon,
The division between sky and land,
My eyelids,
Split the inner and outer,
Both are similar.
When the horizon grows dark, its golden eye rolls back into its hem,
When I go to sleep in bed, my auburn eyes roll back into their hems,
Sometimes, on the beach, if you study the horizon during sunsets
Out of its eye, an orange liquid pours and glints off the water,
Trickling skyward to the stars,
Sometimes, at home, if you meet me after a day of useless work,
Out the space between upper and lower eyelid, tears flow,
Trickling downward to my lips,
And, at that moment, I imagine I am tasting the salt of the sea and the rays of the sun, And everything feels all right again.
Issa A. Dioume 