No one here, and the body says: whatever is said is not to be said. But no one is a body as well, and what the body says is heard by no one but you. Snowfall and night. The repetition of a murder among the trees. The pen moves across the earth: it no longer knows what will happen, and the hand that holds it has disappeared. Nevertheless, it writes. It writes: in the beginning, among the trees, a body came walking from the night. It writes: the body's whiteness is the color of earth. It is earth, and the earth writes: everything is the color of silence. I am no longer here. I have never said what you say I have said. And yet, the body is a place where nothing dies. And each night, from the silence of the trees, you know that my voice comes walking toward you. |