She walked across the stones, wounding her feet; she pulled out a few sprouts and cast them down into the white abyss of the fog. The scarlet berries shattered—or perhaps someone else consumed them, unaware that they would take root within them, growing into a tree with narrow, triangular leaves... To take, or not to take—or perhaps not to go at all... And what, in the end, is the end?
"She must have grown old by now..." the girl sniffled slightly.
"Perhaps," the older one smiled, "or perhaps she turned into the very fog she lived amidst—became the fog itself."
"Shall we follow her path, then?" the girl’s face lit up, as if she had discovered something.
"That was something only she could have done," the older one said, stroking the little girl’s head.
High above, fragments scattered, wounding the earth; they sank deep into the ground—down to its very core—where they vanished, and the wounds healed over...
A dream.
Somewhere in the distance, something let out a roar, a scarlet leaf fell, and a city burned... Guernica...
Reality dissolved into dark specks, and she opened her eyes... She was terribly thirsty.
Sometimes the heavens weep, and then flowers bloom—in the darkness, on the edge of an exposed cliff—while the fog advances upon you like a dead angel.
From a state of nakedness and obscurity, something pure, cold as snow, and hard emerges; it becomes overgrown with crimson blossoms and bluish leaves, eventually turning tender and luminous... yet a word, a designation, a voice is required for something living to be born. "Bird!"—the cry rang out into the void, drawn-out and indistinct; it echoed off the clouds, shattered against the dark crags, came to rest in the grass, and then rolled away—onward, endlessly, across the clouds, toward the very heights... And the birds were reborn.
A memory...
Fishermen cannot venture out into a turbulent sea; their boats are dashed against the rocks, and their cries freeze in the distance—bringing pain and loss. It is as if the birds are crying out for the dead, sometimes even recalling their names...
And a letter cannot be sent...
In the fissures that cannot be mended, one can sense the wind; in the continents that cannot be joined, there are deep hollows. And we—we are merely travelers, watching the stars, catching the sun’s dew...
A doubt...
"Were you there?" “Yes, but only once… I couldn’t do it again…” She faltered—her voice trailing off into a near-whisper.
“Why?” The girl clung to her arm, as if hoping to tear herself free and take flight. “Why did you leave the birds? Could you no longer see them?”
She turned, looked at the girl, and fell silent—as if something inside her had snapped, like the mesh holding up the sky. It fell and shattered into a thousand shards; a heart like that could never be mended.
The words ran out, just like the blood-red wild raspberries. The sky grew dim, a curtain was drawn, laundry was hung out to dry, and night descended—as if nothing remained, as if nothing had ever been. I had always dreamed of being a bird, of flying; sometimes I would try in my dreams, but I’d only end up crushing buildings—little houses, house after house… and she drifted off again, sinking deep into sleep.
If only one could return to the cranes—to know where they are flying, why they cross the clouds, why they fall silent at the very start and never sing…
A Memory
They flew like shadows, circling, wanting to join them—but for me, there was no water, only the earth, plowed and colonized by man, gray and dejected…
From the Unimagined
And then, silence descended, dropping white snowdrops before vanishing into eternity—leaving behind a crimson stain on the sky, like an open wound.
A Preface
Do not hold onto what you keep hidden against your chest; cast it away. Let it become a leaf, carried off by the current like a boat, to come to rest at the very bottom—there, at the threshold of the sun…
*Knock, knock, knock…* Small feathers tap against the garden gate, reminding me of our meeting. And I am standing here, barefoot. I am running through the thicket when something suddenly stops me... A memory, perhaps...
Fly as you might, you’ll find nothing in the clouds—you’ll only lose something...
And there, a word took shape out of the mist, forming a long, rounded bird; inside it lay an egg, and within that, a heart—white as a milkshake—pulsing and swaying, as if it had a life of its own, or as if someone were stirring it with a long, invisible oar... Will it be born, or won’t it? Will it be born, or won’t it?
It must have been hard for you to fly, back when you were a bird...
She laughed, dissolved into tiny flowers, and sank into the lake—the girl followed after her.
And so they remained...
The birds flew away, leaving behind a pair of autumn apples—dull and faded, like old tin plates.
Take a bite, and a tree will grow; no need to whittle the bark... Just feathers.
And somewhere, voices were calling out, though no one could be seen...
"Let me touch your hands!"
"Why? They are no longer wings."
"...I want to!" the echo murmured, long and drawn-out, to the girl.
"She must have grown old by now..." the girl sniffled slightly.
"Perhaps," the older one smiled, "or perhaps she turned into the very fog she lived amidst—became the fog itself."
"Shall we follow her path, then?" the girl’s face lit up, as if she had discovered something.
"That was something only she could have done," the older one said, stroking the little girl’s head.
High above, fragments scattered, wounding the earth; they sank deep into the ground—down to its very core—where they vanished, and the wounds healed over...
A dream.
Somewhere in the distance, something let out a roar, a scarlet leaf fell, and a city burned... Guernica...
Reality dissolved into dark specks, and she opened her eyes... She was terribly thirsty.
Sometimes the heavens weep, and then flowers bloom—in the darkness, on the edge of an exposed cliff—while the fog advances upon you like a dead angel.
From a state of nakedness and obscurity, something pure, cold as snow, and hard emerges; it becomes overgrown with crimson blossoms and bluish leaves, eventually turning tender and luminous... yet a word, a designation, a voice is required for something living to be born. "Bird!"—the cry rang out into the void, drawn-out and indistinct; it echoed off the clouds, shattered against the dark crags, came to rest in the grass, and then rolled away—onward, endlessly, across the clouds, toward the very heights... And the birds were reborn.
A memory...
Fishermen cannot venture out into a turbulent sea; their boats are dashed against the rocks, and their cries freeze in the distance—bringing pain and loss. It is as if the birds are crying out for the dead, sometimes even recalling their names...
And a letter cannot be sent...
In the fissures that cannot be mended, one can sense the wind; in the continents that cannot be joined, there are deep hollows. And we—we are merely travelers, watching the stars, catching the sun’s dew...
A doubt...
"Were you there?" “Yes, but only once… I couldn’t do it again…” She faltered—her voice trailing off into a near-whisper.
“Why?” The girl clung to her arm, as if hoping to tear herself free and take flight. “Why did you leave the birds? Could you no longer see them?”
She turned, looked at the girl, and fell silent—as if something inside her had snapped, like the mesh holding up the sky. It fell and shattered into a thousand shards; a heart like that could never be mended.
The words ran out, just like the blood-red wild raspberries. The sky grew dim, a curtain was drawn, laundry was hung out to dry, and night descended—as if nothing remained, as if nothing had ever been. I had always dreamed of being a bird, of flying; sometimes I would try in my dreams, but I’d only end up crushing buildings—little houses, house after house… and she drifted off again, sinking deep into sleep.
If only one could return to the cranes—to know where they are flying, why they cross the clouds, why they fall silent at the very start and never sing…
A Memory
They flew like shadows, circling, wanting to join them—but for me, there was no water, only the earth, plowed and colonized by man, gray and dejected…
From the Unimagined
And then, silence descended, dropping white snowdrops before vanishing into eternity—leaving behind a crimson stain on the sky, like an open wound.
A Preface
Do not hold onto what you keep hidden against your chest; cast it away. Let it become a leaf, carried off by the current like a boat, to come to rest at the very bottom—there, at the threshold of the sun…
*Knock, knock, knock…* Small feathers tap against the garden gate, reminding me of our meeting. And I am standing here, barefoot. I am running through the thicket when something suddenly stops me... A memory, perhaps...
Fly as you might, you’ll find nothing in the clouds—you’ll only lose something...
And there, a word took shape out of the mist, forming a long, rounded bird; inside it lay an egg, and within that, a heart—white as a milkshake—pulsing and swaying, as if it had a life of its own, or as if someone were stirring it with a long, invisible oar... Will it be born, or won’t it? Will it be born, or won’t it?
It must have been hard for you to fly, back when you were a bird...
She laughed, dissolved into tiny flowers, and sank into the lake—the girl followed after her.
And so they remained...
The birds flew away, leaving behind a pair of autumn apples—dull and faded, like old tin plates.
Take a bite, and a tree will grow; no need to whittle the bark... Just feathers.
And somewhere, voices were calling out, though no one could be seen...
"Let me touch your hands!"
"Why? They are no longer wings."
"...I want to!" the echo murmured, long and drawn-out, to the girl.
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