Handwritten text on photocopy, edited for the friend Olindo
It is in the heat of life, in that
Which you have filled with meaning,
That eternity has rested.
In that meaning that hides private
Fears, that dissolves worries in an
Ancient calm, that renders substances
Transparent to observe the horizon with a
Human hope.
You have chosen the yellow of autumn
To tell us
That these leaves, the moist stone, the
Big oak marked by lightning, the
Slanting greys of the banks of the moon set ablaze
By the beeches, the silenced dogs in the corners, the
Naked sovereign apse,
Are your face.
The memory revives the recollection and
Makes it a sign of the present.
Like a premonition, without the awaited object
I have wanted to see you again, and
Now I am certain that the meander of the river, the distant tower, the
Ochre and grey colours, the bare walls of stone and brick,
My childhood, have their gaze
In your eyes, small and hollowed like short private peepholes.
November 1983