First of all, this is not a book.
There are no words nor numbered pages.
A woman is speaking in low tones from another room,
In another house, a distant country
Her whisper close as mother's
Or lover's song warming the ear.
Snow is falling. Lightning flashes in a desert.
Waves lap up and down an endless beach.
When planets collide, they do not crumble.
At the end of this world is another.
In large halls, strangers dance
Waltzing with wings and heavy hearts.
You call each day by a secret name.
On porcelain jars, under the intertwining trees,
Painted lovers touch tentatively, painted lips.
They do not part even as you watch them.
When she leaves you,
Her receding figure growing large in your eyes,
You will not call after her.
Wise as a child weighed down by discoveries,
You can bear anything. From now on,
All simple lives are legendary.
You keep her fairy tales like sweets
Or stolen stones under your tongue.
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