Trilingual post
when everywhere is an impetuous ramble
when the spiral of time swallows itself like a boomerang hitting
the tree trunk it came out of
when topsy- turvy and careless become abstract notions in the stronghold of perennial fears
and we are waiting for miracles: the wine to turn into grapes
the sun ray back into the Sun, the sons to give birth to the parents
the sound, back in the flesh of the violin, us to make the Death die not her us…
Vectors, wherever you look, they lead to a point, the only one, The purposeless…
any intention of love is spontaneously diluted, more is asked
and the only thing that we want is a where to, not love, something that would entirely consume us
when we are too used to economize anything, to be presumptuous
when we pray to icons as if in the mirror Mirrors
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