Harelip is a game to annoy the thin beating drum. Sharpened with crystal, the words slash, blind and make you see. The child taps her tongue and foot, she follows the march of the animals on the edge of the world.
Time is running out, we must risk everything, death is not coming. The torn lip searches for the rest of the body in the animals’ clothing. If there’s no one there, there’s a lot to dig up, to break, to lose. It’s a game to piss off the end. The tongue flees the mouth, gains ground, searches the bushes. A trickle of slime puts out a fire in the dry grass. Suddenly fear, then the tornado or candy release. The voice clouds a small mirror. First smile. It’s the book of living lights, of the earth and the nightless sky, of the face broken by the singing. From the child to the old beast, the one who has swallowed it all will want to see it all again, for a last walk in the forest. Time is running out, you have to risk everything, with your heart buried on fire.
