I
I hold in my hands that which warms
the empty seed
recognizes the same hands
that molded it
I could have been that seed
just as I could have been that tree
I could have been those hands
that keep the touch
the taste and the warmth
from which life emanates
I could have been the cave that sows the tree.
I could have been…
I hold the silence
a warmth of the moment
II
to surrender to the limit,
to surrender to what gathers, is to surrender to life
to surrender to unease as to the quest
to surrender to nausea, is not to succumb to it
to surrender to the illusion of finding again the other’s sensation, is not to succumb to the illusion
to surrender to the moment
to surrender to spinning
to surrender to holding that impulse during a movement
to surrender even to releasing the impulse and keep spinning
to surrender from the contact with the verticality
to surrender to the pulse of the music that held us
how many more times will I have to surrender?
III
I would have liked… to see
what is it that gravitates in my inner world?
who is the one who desires, who invents a world in my name?
what is it looking for, fumbling in the darkness, the night, the impossible, the cool water falling from the sky?
who weaves the knots that lash my spine?
who steals my breath?
I am terror itself; I am the grimaces
the attention is other.
IV
the ash falls before our eyes
you draw on your palm
destiny
the future and the quest
a world beneath your eyelid
a last glance that flees towards the stairs
towards the depths
of your breath
take care of the inner gestures
of the life within life
of the echoes of gazes
of the end
in the silhouette of your hand
of the ritual of touch
that invades
under a stirred sky
the destiny of ashes inscribed
upon your skin
Image: Tangled Dürer: The Six Knots (ca. before 1521)
