a way of looking: Two sons

Monday, October 15, 2007

Two sons

I have a son who in the morning gets up quickly.
And one who gets up slowly.
The first one is bicycling quickly to his work.
The other slowly.
Does this reveal something of the world coming?
Are they lifted up
as a branch in the wind?
Or are they lifting up the world,
two small shoulders learning
to walk under the weight?

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Are the words that we speak or write, our words or do we receive them? Is what we see and hear ours or is it given to us? Is the thin air that keeps us alive, a right or an act of love? And what is more real, the wonder of the beginning or fearing the end?

The poets, if they want it or not, they are the mystics' brothers, and as innocent, and as naive. They too remember more than one world, and they hope to see the mirror lighting up in all what around them is doomed to be silent. Only they, perhaps, still know the formula. So many words, and sometimes they find their place and everything becomes clear. The desire with which they are looking. There is something in that desire that is of love. A hand too can but stay at the surface of the skin, but, imperfect as the touching may be, it is called caress. And the more caressed, the more the skin grows thin. There is a moment when everything is flowing, melted together. That moment comes.