By Etel Adnan
Tides: yes, breathing, and love being a tide coming, and receding, a pendular insanity, as impatient in its regularity as this gaze the inbuilt instability of metals.
When unruly forms move too closely to laptops there occurs a transfer of transparencies. A passenger is boarding a ship with me. Let’s live before dying.
Vision is a rumor, some steam. The body produces thinking, behaves like movies. Moves and makes move.
At times, an appetite for death creates a withdrawal into the origin of heat, and turns the world into a blur.
A woman mourns her dead lover while everything buckles under her sorrow’s pressure. Her days are going to grow longer.
Nights are breathing. Divine will circulates around their edges. A precocious summer lies naked on a granite wall. The ocean is my land.
Disastrous are disasters. Paradise is such a lonely place that we are doomed, anyway. At the meeting point of its rivers the horizon is always enlarged, the imagination, unleashed.
In the courtyard, the sun is scribbling shadows on the fading roses. I’m spending hours waiting for the next hour.
Love is a sandstorm that loosens reality’s building stones. Its feverish energy takes us into the heart of confusion. Sometimes, a frozen moon illuminates frozen fields.
There’s so much life around me, and I will have to leave.
My breathing is a tide, love doesn’t die.