that breaks off,
and I don't know why;
as if we were only made
of sand and stone,
of mountains of memories,
that comes loose with a soft breeze;
and falling were that feeling
and forgetting were hearing
their sound from far away,
when you can barely recognize
what you once believed would endure.
For even everything within us
belongs to no one.
And you only have to look
at the nature of the ruins
my storm is made of:
you, the breeze,
pushing the stone against the sand,
the mountain against gravity,
the bones against the flesh,
and memory against feeling,
only to hear my own fears.
Then the far turns near,
and I am
—this now—
just what was born from there.
From here, thinking and thinking—
perhaps it's unwise
to open a door of words
toward everything within oneself
that cannot be expressed,
only felt and remembered
until its extinction,
when you become
part of the nature
of that silence,
of that breeze;
and breathe it,
again and again—
isn't all of this an idea?
All of this: endless-again
, you.
If only an angel could sculpt an Aleph in hell
as the condition for writing about her,
I would do it because I was already there.
as the condition for writing about her,
I would do it because I was already there.