Do net let the terror love you too much. A young boy in farmer clothes harnessed to a muddy wheat cart a pitchfork on his shoulder Through a thatch of clouds a thin man tries to steal the sun for himself On an old wooden bench an old man blows smoke rings on the tip of his lip, to the sound of a baby girl s laughter as if the whole world starts and ends in her eyes. Instead I smile like Pierrot and continue to crawl on the mountain slope chained to the hard projections of memory. The countries I have been in yet never visited fill me with nostalgia for the place I distance myself from. I myself reside within myself right now and myself is neither house nor fortress but frail, vulnerable flesh and fragile loves and that marvelous nostalgia for all the things I m not but perhaps could have been.
Language is tainted traces from yonder.
Take silence and try to be silent. This beautiful light on my windowsill Is no different from any other light - It comes from the sun That touches all other windowsills. To understand How this light lies with such splendor Even on the sharpest things Which your sweet look smoothes out and lightly curves, My wife. The universe has vanished. Only the sun still remains.