The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, October 29, 2022

Moses

Give me your hand. We have to crossthe river and my strength fails me.Hold me as if I were an abandoned packagein a wicker basket, a lump that movesand cries in the twilight. Cross the riverwith me. Even if this time the watersdon't part before us. Even if this time Goddoesn't come to our aid and a flurry of arrowsriddles our backs. Even if there is no river.

--Luis Alberto de CuencaTranslated from Spanish by Gustavo Pérez Firmat

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