Birds are rising out of the fog, rising
out of a lake, somewhere between the water’s mirror and the air.
Their wings touch the waterline, their silhouettes
are reflected off it and return to the flying
bodies, their beaks cut the air, each
one recalls the exit from a dream in its proper place,
water dripping from their wings, their
feathers, water dripping on the surface of an unknown lake,
drops fall on the surface and break it,
leaving circles that ripple out towards
the banks, towards harbors of the mind.
Among the pillars of dreams we move, between the hands
of the wind speaking from on high, teaching us
how to read its manuscript, teaching us the first
steps of its dance. Stones will soon
see, screams will tint the air,
souls which floated, angel-like, above
the cities at night, glide through the stillness of cathedrals,
keeping watch over the silent movement of rivers,
humble and wild, souls which journeyed
shamelessly between perversion and
the pure waters of God’s gaze, now return
The light forces its way into stones and trees, into
the heart of rivers, the earth’s pores, into glaciers’ lungs, into
the oceans’ silence, layers of air quiver under
beating wings, they’re in perpetual ascension, sunbeams
trickle through reeds, through the mist
floating on the water.
And then, suddenly, there is time for everything to grow still,
when the sky stops breathing, when a scream is petrified into
silence, when life and death stand face to face.
Then the birds rise even higher,
alone, claiming the moment, their beating wings
start to resound in the empty, unborn spaces
of stellar corridors, in the newly open
eyes of the world.
We rise, given back the unity never
taken from us, we rise so that each may
drink from the pitcher of our own lives, we rise to
observe the course of the shadow cast by the unknown
Word, which echoes in our ears like a metaphor for the heart.