At the Threshold

Be pleased if the wind that enters the orchard brings back the surge of life: here where a dead tangle of memories sinks and founders, there was no garden, only a reliquary. The flapping you hear is not flight but a commotion in the eternal womb; you see how this strip of solitary earth transforms itself into a crucible. Beyond the sheer wall is rage. If you proceed, you might bump into— perhaps you might—the saving apparition: here the stories are composed, the acts that the game of the future will cancel. Look for a broken link in the net that holds us down, jump out and flee! Go, I've prayed this for you—now my thirst will be lighter; the rust less bitter. . . translated by David Young