Patrick Renaud /Pháp
when the sycamore leaves turn red purple
autumn days compress
the breath of the wind
white streaks of cloud
about to glide
on the magical space of nowhere
about to disappear
in the hindsight
silhouette of a boat reappears
in recollection stream
as a wet maple leaf drifted
in dark sea
trying to preserve its identity
crumpled memory filled with
blood
squeezed into verses
when the borders of two dreams remain closed
poetic language
wandering on margin of reality
wandering down along the trail of collective
memory
who are they
expatriates live in flashbacks
the past is homeland
as an idea borrowed from Erik Pevernagie
one would say “ we are what we remember “
but then over time
everything becomes fuzzy
no winners
only losers
only the blood and bones of the dead
and dying : the victims
culprits & tricks
of the guise is another story
‘the fall
the fall of the leaf
the fall of a grand narrative
the fall of Saigon
the fall of
the fall’
Sydney, fall 2021
