The word is born out of the silence,
so the beginning of writing is to master the pause.
I write, as if stretching my limbs,
numb after a long sleep.
The awakening of the word is like the action of light,
which effortlessly manifests the hidden.
I write, as if climbing a steep rock wall
where the foot of man has never dug in.
The land of the word is an anti-labyrinth: the paths are scattered,
yet each of them leads to the goal.
I write, as if speaking a forgotten language
that only the mouth remembers.
Controlling the word doesn’t bring the abundance
that comes from a miracle.
I write, as if recalling an old melody dissolved in the bustle,
remaining only as a longing for eternity.
First published on Steemit