I am sinking into myself. Our own slaves we are, before anybody else’s. There is nothing to hold on to, the answer is lost and so is the question.
Deaf to all sense and reason I slowly, painfully, sail across the winter of my soul. Sometimes, at Night’s noon, I catch a glimpse of pale brightness. A lighthouse I can make out among the spit of the waves and the cry of thunder.
A city. A city blooms from the warm breast of the desert. I can hear the frantic footsteps, the haggling, the laughter and the telling of tales. Somebody stops. An old woman crumples up a small paper bag. The smell of spices, their colours. The story keeps being told. One listens, another doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, as long as the tale goes on. And it goes on and on, on into the night. The stars are now switched on. It is spring, it is autumn. You see, it doesn’t really make a difference over there. It’s a matter of form. Opposites are not understood there. They are not even perceived. The bright Heart which connects all things shines the whole year. Try ask them. They know this much: spring and autumn wear two coats, two moods, two languages. They are each other’s translation.
That is how I imagine her. She breathes the wind, she swells my sails. But this sea, so wide and lonely.