we are millers from the Beginning.
millers are the most mystic lovers: they ascend with grain, they descend with flour,
they weigh the mass and impact: bodies traversing bodies.
as though the age of forsaking language were the truest Spring.
when hearts obey nothing but Necessity inside Freedom: streams of water and wind
inside the effort of breathing.
sometimes the sails burn like desperate thirsty lips looking and groping for the truest Spring.
while three lightnings cross the millers' flesh with orange and red horses of fire.
millers suffer from the art of spiralling, the art of infinite blowing,
infinite turning around the same muscles of hope:
No comments:
Post a Comment