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Today is one of those days, where I felt the ground was not solid. It feels like if I am walking on the clouds, and all I can see is the fog, not going away, but densely descending.
Then, as if a sort of a calling came to me, I went to my closet and found my old diary, dating back from 2002. I opened a page, curious to glance about what I was writing at that time… and then I saw it.
This poem had the most profound effect on me. I never tried to understand what was behind such its irregularly perfect prose. I simply connected, like if it had its own wave frequency and I tuned it and simply moved along.
To remember is to live again, and it certainly brought me back:
Somewhere I have never travelled,
gladly beyond any experience,
your eyes have their silence:
In your most fragile texture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch,
because they are too near.
Your slightest look easily will unclose me.
Though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open petal by petal myself as spring opens
(touching, skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose.
Or if you wish be to close me, I and my life will
shut very beautifully suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines,
the snow carefully everywhere descending.
Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals,
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colors of its countries
rendering death and forever with each breathing.
(I do not know what is it about you that closes and opens; only
something in me understands the voice of your eyes
is deeper than all roses) Nobody,
not even the rain, has such small hands.