I wasn’t thinking about Blake’s fire Tiger,
nor Hugo’s nor Shere Kahn’s
nor Kipling’s.
I had in mind this vivid image of you
gentle, subtle, taking the space with-your-presence,
Taciturn, yes... sometimes
oh, this word,
this word is the Tiger,
the archetype of my imaginary animal:
delicate, fatal, silent, filled with infinite energy and wisdom
living in the eternity of the present
as time goes by and the craft that created a semblance

she would ignore
she would sniff
she would kill
she would forget,
the morning rain the plaited labyrinth her own traces

Sumatra, Bengal
and those beautiful gardens of forking paths
there, in the center of the cosmos / soothing the Ganges calming down your thirst
you belong to my words,
between mythologies and fictions
finally you, Tiger,
yours is that private sphere, closed like a dream.