She didn't think herself a racist. She'd had black school friends, worked with black women at the restaurant, and watched Oprah daily.
But when her seven-year-old, white daughter brought home a
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Translated by Wendy Cross
She lies down, stretching out across the trunk of a walnut tree cut during the spring.
All that's left of its bark are a few shreds, gradually withering away.
With her back resting between two branches, she gazes at the clear sky of the mid-August night.
Perhaps a shooting star will trace its curve in the dark sky, studded with glowing light. She will not hesitate to make a spontaneous wish; her head is full of them.
Deep in thought, lulled by the sway of the warm breeze, a soft smile spreads across her peaceful face.
Tonight, Nature is winking at her and cradling her in its arms.
A far-off nightingale makes a melancholy lament.
The crickets have fallen silent.
The wind's soft breath soothes the burns from the hot hours of summer sun.
The oak tree trembles and seems to yawn.
The moon, huge tonight, is made of honey and brown sugar.