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ONES ONES...Spring. From some unknown plains the wind brings to us the yellow honeyed pollen of flowers. One's lips are dry from this sweet dust. Every moment one passes one's tongue over them. Probably all women I meet in the streets have sweet lips today. This somewhat disturbs my logical thinking. On such days one sees wonderful equations, hitherto unknown. Adding. Subtracting. Multiplying. Dividing. I feel myself. To feel one's self is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder or an infected finger. A healthy eye, or finger is not felt; it is non-existent, as it were. So far I have served knowledge, and I shall continue to serve knowledge. But the sky! The sky is blue. I love, we love, only such a sterile, faultless sky. Happily, it is only the case of small parts breaking. - E. Zamitan (mostly). |