(no subject)
I lean outside, toward the warm, dry scent of burning that drifts once in a while through the late spring and summer - into the mild air which unexpectedly blooms with other textures. The wax, brass and polish of the Oratory candles. Church incense. Wood and stone.
The month of hard work and rest absorbed into me now: glinting with the scent of the rotten oranges, shirtless men re-digging the set as we warm up, a golden birdcage - for no reason - of paper-feathers-wire bluetits and finches, the horn playing broken chords in the mill of preparation. Singing in tired detachment and dizzy engagement; telling the stories, kissing, dancing, coming home in a wonderfully loud taxi in the bright rain, exhausted, blissful.
The school of philosophy had a sign in its window I last saw a few years ago: so much more real and familiar to me now, like a solid embrace, less yearning, than it was then.
If only I may grow:
firmer, simpler, quieter, warmer.
Dag Hammarskjöld
(1905 - 1961)
The month of hard work and rest absorbed into me now: glinting with the scent of the rotten oranges, shirtless men re-digging the set as we warm up, a golden birdcage - for no reason - of paper-feathers-wire bluetits and finches, the horn playing broken chords in the mill of preparation. Singing in tired detachment and dizzy engagement; telling the stories, kissing, dancing, coming home in a wonderfully loud taxi in the bright rain, exhausted, blissful.
The school of philosophy had a sign in its window I last saw a few years ago: so much more real and familiar to me now, like a solid embrace, less yearning, than it was then.
If only I may grow:
firmer, simpler, quieter, warmer.
Dag Hammarskjöld
(1905 - 1961)