The Key

Outside us it was night with a closed window whose hinges had rusted. Outside us stood the plaster wall with the plain lines of its cracks across its breast like the trace of the sorrow of a deep ancient river that once, long ago, ran swift and roaring. Outside us on the table was a folder whose sheets had been fastened together by the press of a staple; and there was the footfall of a clock turning around itself with its constant, unchanging rhythm. Outside the agate womb into which the fountain of light let all of itself flow into it in a vestibule ... Truly, truly in the darkness a clear spring of the water of life wells up that has passed through veil after veil and cold empty spaces without hanging suspended in the void of cold wandering colours ... Vermilion lights come out of the pores of the tiles’ skin with the invisible, unbroken logic of creeping green ivy that has always grown. Vermilion lights shine out through the openings of the vestibule and cover the surfaces of worn tables and the cracks in the plaster and the figures on the price tags of goods laid out in shops. At the foot of the hazel sapling fresh waves well up waves whose light-winged footsteps lull to sleep the weary sound of the clock ... On the hard, uneven ground we rolled in each other’s arms with the logic of a green leaf that reads the laws of staplers as an absurd and empty book ... In the space where our breaths mingle we call each other with another voice with a softer voice with a brighter voice than the sound of a dewdrop falling on the transparent wing of a dragonfly. In the space where our breaths there mingle, all things begin to speak with one another in whispers - the songs of unseen birds in the shade of the green lacework of the pine at noon on an autumn day - The shirt kisses its silent button. The door calls its lonely hinge into its arms. The bedspread covers the naked, frost-bitten mattress with long caresses. The hair clip takes the tousled hair in the ring of its arms. In our embrace the green husk of the walnut yielding up its hidden colours gives them to the colourless, dejected thread ... . In the space where our breaths mingle a diamond drop of water slips out through the thread of a stripped metal screw and lovingly throws itself into the brass bowl with a long sigh whose echo will fill the empty distances; with the green logic of the ivy the green creeping ivy that has always grown: from beside the pillars from which once ropes used to hang; from among the ashes of the burnt palace; from inside the clay bowls buried in the depths of the earth from among the tracks of the wild boar that charged into the rice paddies, the ivy that has always grown with the breath of all the flowers; has grown and grafted the slender bodies of the stems to the soft fingertips of the jasmine flowers grafted my hands to your soft fingertips ... Under this hand the strings stretched - on the instrument - have another vibration and within us it brims with the echo of a melody whose measure the falling of iron girders onto the ground of the alley will not disrupt ... Outside outside outside the cage of staplers a fountain of light pours all of itself into the womb of a red agate it pours with the key of this melody ... 27/6/1381