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.

Wednesday, November 1, 2023

[The forest and fields are no longer visible, nearly,]

The forest and fields are no longer visible, nearly,

the mist hides the meadows where forgotten crops

drop their seeds. The evening sun reposes

on a honey-colored cloud,

dangling its skeletal hand as shadowy

waves pass through its fingers. At the edge of the woods

a lost hunter asks the deer for a glass of water.

Stillness abounds.

 

--Meret Oppenheim 

Translated from the French and German 

by Kathleen Heil

 


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