No work pulled tight, silent, and monotonous as endlessly sculpted sea – but
outbursts concessions to earth’s effervescence – opening past worry and
torment a stridency of beaches for the heart – bursts always dislocated,
always reiterated, and beyond consummation – not works but the matter
itself where a work makes its way – all bound up in some project about to
cast them away – first cries, naïve murmurs, weary forms – witnesses,
though awkward, of this project – which, as their imperfections must meet
perfectly cohere – here with the power to convince that we must stop at the
uncertain – things that tremble, waver, and ceaselessly become – like a land
in the grip of devastation – sparse.
– Edouard Glissant. from Riveted Blood
translated by Betsy Wing
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taḫsistu 