Poem
Wadih Sa’adeh
Bringing Back A Melted Person
This lake is not water. It was a person to whom I spoke at length, then he dissolved.And I am not trying now to look at water, but rather I’m trying to recover a dissolved person. How do people become lakes like this, which tree-leaves and algae top?
Drop by drop, the dead descend on my door.
A boat stops for me under the sun.
And a wretched fit of trembling returns to sand.
I didn’t shiver, but I went mad. The water is cold, but I didn’t shiver.
I just trembled a little. Then I went mad.
On the surface of the lake is a leaf. It was an eye. On the bank was a bough, which was a human rib.
I try now to gather the leaves and boughs. I try to gather a person I loved.
But many have passed by here. They gathered leaves and firewood to kindle their hearths.
Gathering together a person will never happen. Gathering a complete set of limbs won’t happen. Many of them were burned.
Nonetheless I must restore a person I loved. Loved ones must come back if you call them. They must come back even if they were water. If they were dead. If they were algae. Algae must become a human being when you summon it. And he will come, even if wet, if bloated, if rotten. It must come back a friend even if he died one thousand years ago.
There must be some way to gather people from the banks, a way to turn the
leaves and boughs floating on lakes into human beings.
I didn’t shiver. The limbs shivered. I had to plug the space between their joints in order to stop their shivers so they would still.
But how very protracted is the distance between joints!
I run slowly like the last drop of water which came down, and was too late to flow.
I run slowly scrambling to catch up with the running, and evaporate by and by.
I won’t make it. Part of me will come to be in space and part of me will sink into the earth.
I’m late for my comrades and won’t make it. I creep on but I won’t make it.
Pieces of me I lose, pieces accompany me exhausted, and pieces become free-floating particles.
Even if I make it, which thing of me will make it?
Around me is grass and pebbles and dirt. Birds peck at part of me. Ants eat part of me. And part of me belongs to the grass and pebbles and dirt.
I run slowly, and above me rises a thread of me, and below me descends a thread of me. I run slowly between two needles stitching my nothingness.
I came down the last drop. I was in the cloud and came down. Am I looking for a person who dissolved or am I the one dissolving? Or have I, from searching so much for his dissolution, dissolved like him?
And I’ve come, instead of searching for him, to search for me!
I see on the way people going by. Part of what remains of me sees people.
These, most likely, haven’t lost a person they love. Or they lost him and despite that are completing the way?!
I don’t know how our legs don’t stop walking when we lose a person we love. Weren’t we walking, not on our feet, but on his? Wasn’t the whole excursion for his sake? Wasn’t he the excursion?
How can one walk if he’s lost a person? I stopped. He was the one walking and I his follower. I was the one walking in him. When he stopped, I no longer had feet.
I’m late, creeping, and I’m evaporating. How then will I bring back a person who has dissolved? Mustn’t I, more precisely, bring back myself first? Come back at least as a whole drop of water coming down on a leaf, on an eye, on a rib, on a shore?
Mustn’t I, in order to extract a person from algae, be at least of lake water?
I’m late and I won’t make it. All that I can do is see. I see from far off. Distorted vision from the eye of a thing that is not cloud nor water nor solid nor vapor.
Then I don’t see.
All of this is merely imagining. A glooming dark imploring glooming dark. I will not see and I won’t make it and I won’t restore a person and I won’t bring him back . . .
I just am trying to creep along. I’m trying to catch up to my comrades.
But they’ve come to be far off, very far off.
Perhaps in the past I was a person searching for a person who had dissolved, or perhaps I was the one dissolving. Now not even a drop. And in my frightening identification between the water and vapor and the person, I search for a name with which to introduce myself when I meet up with the ants and grass and birds.
You are creeping like me. You will necessarily stop on a protrusion. Send me out a cry from there, and I’ll name myself with it.
Identifying between water and solid and vapor. Even so I have joints!
And there are empty places between my joints.
Waters crash into them. Winds crash into them and people crash into them.
Many people now traverse my joints. I don’t know whence they come or whither they go. But they crash against my bones.
People I encountered once; people I encountered many times; people I have never encountered . . . but they gush out now, and bang on my bones.
I must open these bones so they may enter.
If only these bones were a door.
From whence have they come?!
I think that those we look at enter our bodies via our eyes and become flesh and blood.
Some of them become some of those straying past between our joints
and we continue thus hearing the raps on our bones.
I now hear water knockings
I must open.
استعادة شخص ذائب
استعادة شخص ذائب
هذه البحيرة ليست ماء. كانت شخصًا تحدثتُ إليه طويلاً، ثم ذاب!
ولا أحاول الآن النظرَ إلى ماء بل استعادةَ شخص ذائب.
كيف يصير الناس هكذا بحيرات، يعلوها ورق الشجر والطحلب؟!
قطرةً قطرة ينزل الموتى على بابي
ومركبٌ يتوقف من أجلي تحت الشمس
وجالية فقيرة من الرعشات تعود إلى الرمل.
لم أرتجف. لكني جُننت. الماء بارد لكني لم أرتجف. فقط ارتعشتُ قليلاً. ثم جُننت.
على سطح البحيرة ورقة، كانت عينًا. على الضفَّة غصن، كان ضلعًا بشريًا.
أحاول الآن جَمْعَ الأوراق والغصون. أحاول جمع شخص كنت أحبُّه.
لكن مرَّ كثيرون من هنا، جمعوا ورقًا وحطبًا ليشعلوا مواقدهم.
لن يتمَّ أبدًا جمْعُ شخص. لن يتمَّ جمع أعضاء كاملة. كثير منها احترق.
مع ذلك لا بدَّ من أن أعيد شخصًا كنت أحبّه. على الأحبَّاء أن يعودوا إذا ناديتهم. عليهم أن يعودوا ولو كانوا ماء. لو كانوا أمواتًا. لو كانوا طحلبًا… على الطحلب أن يصير إنسانًا حين تستدعيه. ويأتي لو مبلَّلاً، لو مترهّلاً، لو عفنًا. عليه أن يعود صديقًا ولو مات منذ ألف عام.
يجب أن تكون هناك طريقة ما لجمع الناس عن الضفاف. طريقة لإعادة الأوراق والأغصان الطافية على البحيرات، بشرًا.
لم أرتجف. الأعضاء ارتجفت. وكان عليَّ أن أسدَّ الفراغ بين مفاصلها كي أوقف ارتجافاتها وتهدأ.
ولكن، كم طويلةٌ المسافةُ بين مفصلين! وكم أحتاجُ إلى ردم لسدّ الفراغ بينهما!
كم هي طويلة المسافة بين ضلع وضلع!
أجري بطيئًا، مثل آخر نقطة ماء نزلتْ، وتأخرتْ عن السيل.
أجري بطيئًا زاحفًا للالتحاق بالجريان، وأتبخَّر رويدًا رويدًا.
لن أصل. بعضي سيصير في الفضاء. وبعضي سيغرق في الأرض.
تأخرتُ عن رفاقي ولن أصل. أزحف لكني لن أصل.
قطَعٌ مني أفقدها، وقطعٌ ترافقني منهَكَة، وقطع تصير هباء.
حتى إذا وصلتُ، أيُّ شيء مني سيصل؟!
حولي عشب وحصى وتراب. طيرٌ ينقدُ بعضي. ونملٌ يأكل بعضي. وبعضي للعشب والحصى والتراب.
أجري بطيئًا وفوقي يصعد خيطٌ مني، وتحتي ينزل خيط مني. أجري بطيئًا بين إبرتين، تخيطان عدمي.
نزلتُ آخرَ نقطة. كنتُ في غيمة ونزلتُ. هل أنا الباحث عن شخص ذائب أم أنا الذائب؟ أم أني، من كثرة البحث عن ذوبانه، ذبتُ مثله؟
وصرتُ، عوض أن أبحث عنه، أبحث عني!
أرى على الطريق أشخاصًا عابرين. بعضُ ما بقي مني يرى أشخاصًا. هؤلاء، على الأرجح، لم يفقدوا شخصًا أحبُّوه. أم أنهم فقدوه، ومع ذلك يكملون الطريق؟!
لا أعرف كيف لا تتوقف أرجلنا عن المشي حين نفقد شخصًا نحبُّه. ألم نكن نمشي لا على قدمينا بل على قدميه؟ ألم تكن النزهة كلها من أجله؟ ألم يكن هو النزهة؟
كيف يمشي واحدٌ إذا فقد شخصًا! أنا، حين فقدت شخصًا، توقفت. كان هو الماشي وأنا تابعه. كنت الماشي فيه.و حين توقَّف، لم تعُدْ لي قدمان.
تأخرتُ وزاحفٌ وأتبخَّر. كيف إذن سأُعيد شخصًا ذاب؟ أليس عليَّ بالأحرى أن أعيد أولاً نفسي؟ أن أعود على الأقل قطرةَ ماء كاملة، تنزل على ورقة، على عين، على ضلعٍ على ضفَّة؟
أليس عليَّ، لكي أُخرج من الطحلب شخصًا، أن أكون على الأقل من ماء البحيرة؟
تأخرتُ ولن أصل. كلُّ ما أفعله أني أرى، أرى من بعيد. رؤيةٌ مشوَّشة من عين شيء لا هو غيمة، ولا هو ماء، ولا جماد ولا بخار.
إني، إذن، لا أرى.
كلُّ هذا مجرَّد خيال. عتمةٌ تستجدي عتمة. ولن أرى ولن أصل ولن أستعيد شخصًا ولن أعيده…
إني، فقط، أحاول أن أزحف. أحاول أن ألحق برفاقي.
لكنهم صاروا بعيدين، بعيدين جدًا.
ربما كنتُ في الماضي شخصًا يبحث عن شخص ذابَ أو ربما كنت أنا الذائب. الآن، حتى ولا قطرة. وفي تماهيَّ المرعب بين الماء والبخار والشخص، أبحثُ عن إسمٍ أعرّفُ به نفسي حين ألتقي النمل والعشب والطير. أنت الزاحف مثلي، ستتوقَّف حتمًا على نتوء. ارسلْ لي من هناك نداء، وبه سأسمّي نفسي.
متماه بين ماء وجماد وبخار. مع ذلك لي مفاصل!
ومفاصلي بينها فراغات. ترتطم المياهُ بها، ترتطم الرياح بها، ويرتطم الناس.
ناسٌ كثيرون يعبرون الآن بين مفاصلي. لا أعرف من أين يأتون ولا إلى أين يذهبون. لكنهم يرتطمون بعظامي.
ناسٌ التقيتُهم مرَّة، ناسٌ التقيتُهم مرات، وناس لم ألتقِهم… لكنهم يتدفَّقون الآن، ويدقُّون على عظامي.
عليَّ أن أفتح هذه العظام لكي يدخلوا.
لو كانت هذه العظام بابًا!
من أين جاؤوا؟!
أظنُّ أن الذين ننظر إليهم يدخلون في أجسادنا عَبْرَ عيوننا ويصيرون دمًا و لحمًا.
وبعضهم يصير من المارة التائهين بين مفاصلنا.
… ونستمرُّ، هكذا، نسمع طَرقات على عظامنا.
إني أسمع الآن دقَّات ماء
وعليَّ أن أفتح.
ولا أحاول الآن النظرَ إلى ماء بل استعادةَ شخص ذائب.
كيف يصير الناس هكذا بحيرات، يعلوها ورق الشجر والطحلب؟!
قطرةً قطرة ينزل الموتى على بابي
ومركبٌ يتوقف من أجلي تحت الشمس
وجالية فقيرة من الرعشات تعود إلى الرمل.
لم أرتجف. لكني جُننت. الماء بارد لكني لم أرتجف. فقط ارتعشتُ قليلاً. ثم جُننت.
على سطح البحيرة ورقة، كانت عينًا. على الضفَّة غصن، كان ضلعًا بشريًا.
أحاول الآن جَمْعَ الأوراق والغصون. أحاول جمع شخص كنت أحبُّه.
لكن مرَّ كثيرون من هنا، جمعوا ورقًا وحطبًا ليشعلوا مواقدهم.
لن يتمَّ أبدًا جمْعُ شخص. لن يتمَّ جمع أعضاء كاملة. كثير منها احترق.
مع ذلك لا بدَّ من أن أعيد شخصًا كنت أحبّه. على الأحبَّاء أن يعودوا إذا ناديتهم. عليهم أن يعودوا ولو كانوا ماء. لو كانوا أمواتًا. لو كانوا طحلبًا… على الطحلب أن يصير إنسانًا حين تستدعيه. ويأتي لو مبلَّلاً، لو مترهّلاً، لو عفنًا. عليه أن يعود صديقًا ولو مات منذ ألف عام.
يجب أن تكون هناك طريقة ما لجمع الناس عن الضفاف. طريقة لإعادة الأوراق والأغصان الطافية على البحيرات، بشرًا.
لم أرتجف. الأعضاء ارتجفت. وكان عليَّ أن أسدَّ الفراغ بين مفاصلها كي أوقف ارتجافاتها وتهدأ.
ولكن، كم طويلةٌ المسافةُ بين مفصلين! وكم أحتاجُ إلى ردم لسدّ الفراغ بينهما!
كم هي طويلة المسافة بين ضلع وضلع!
أجري بطيئًا، مثل آخر نقطة ماء نزلتْ، وتأخرتْ عن السيل.
أجري بطيئًا زاحفًا للالتحاق بالجريان، وأتبخَّر رويدًا رويدًا.
لن أصل. بعضي سيصير في الفضاء. وبعضي سيغرق في الأرض.
تأخرتُ عن رفاقي ولن أصل. أزحف لكني لن أصل.
قطَعٌ مني أفقدها، وقطعٌ ترافقني منهَكَة، وقطع تصير هباء.
حتى إذا وصلتُ، أيُّ شيء مني سيصل؟!
حولي عشب وحصى وتراب. طيرٌ ينقدُ بعضي. ونملٌ يأكل بعضي. وبعضي للعشب والحصى والتراب.
أجري بطيئًا وفوقي يصعد خيطٌ مني، وتحتي ينزل خيط مني. أجري بطيئًا بين إبرتين، تخيطان عدمي.
نزلتُ آخرَ نقطة. كنتُ في غيمة ونزلتُ. هل أنا الباحث عن شخص ذائب أم أنا الذائب؟ أم أني، من كثرة البحث عن ذوبانه، ذبتُ مثله؟
وصرتُ، عوض أن أبحث عنه، أبحث عني!
أرى على الطريق أشخاصًا عابرين. بعضُ ما بقي مني يرى أشخاصًا. هؤلاء، على الأرجح، لم يفقدوا شخصًا أحبُّوه. أم أنهم فقدوه، ومع ذلك يكملون الطريق؟!
لا أعرف كيف لا تتوقف أرجلنا عن المشي حين نفقد شخصًا نحبُّه. ألم نكن نمشي لا على قدمينا بل على قدميه؟ ألم تكن النزهة كلها من أجله؟ ألم يكن هو النزهة؟
كيف يمشي واحدٌ إذا فقد شخصًا! أنا، حين فقدت شخصًا، توقفت. كان هو الماشي وأنا تابعه. كنت الماشي فيه.و حين توقَّف، لم تعُدْ لي قدمان.
تأخرتُ وزاحفٌ وأتبخَّر. كيف إذن سأُعيد شخصًا ذاب؟ أليس عليَّ بالأحرى أن أعيد أولاً نفسي؟ أن أعود على الأقل قطرةَ ماء كاملة، تنزل على ورقة، على عين، على ضلعٍ على ضفَّة؟
أليس عليَّ، لكي أُخرج من الطحلب شخصًا، أن أكون على الأقل من ماء البحيرة؟
تأخرتُ ولن أصل. كلُّ ما أفعله أني أرى، أرى من بعيد. رؤيةٌ مشوَّشة من عين شيء لا هو غيمة، ولا هو ماء، ولا جماد ولا بخار.
إني، إذن، لا أرى.
كلُّ هذا مجرَّد خيال. عتمةٌ تستجدي عتمة. ولن أرى ولن أصل ولن أستعيد شخصًا ولن أعيده…
إني، فقط، أحاول أن أزحف. أحاول أن ألحق برفاقي.
لكنهم صاروا بعيدين، بعيدين جدًا.
ربما كنتُ في الماضي شخصًا يبحث عن شخص ذابَ أو ربما كنت أنا الذائب. الآن، حتى ولا قطرة. وفي تماهيَّ المرعب بين الماء والبخار والشخص، أبحثُ عن إسمٍ أعرّفُ به نفسي حين ألتقي النمل والعشب والطير. أنت الزاحف مثلي، ستتوقَّف حتمًا على نتوء. ارسلْ لي من هناك نداء، وبه سأسمّي نفسي.
متماه بين ماء وجماد وبخار. مع ذلك لي مفاصل!
ومفاصلي بينها فراغات. ترتطم المياهُ بها، ترتطم الرياح بها، ويرتطم الناس.
ناسٌ كثيرون يعبرون الآن بين مفاصلي. لا أعرف من أين يأتون ولا إلى أين يذهبون. لكنهم يرتطمون بعظامي.
ناسٌ التقيتُهم مرَّة، ناسٌ التقيتُهم مرات، وناس لم ألتقِهم… لكنهم يتدفَّقون الآن، ويدقُّون على عظامي.
عليَّ أن أفتح هذه العظام لكي يدخلوا.
لو كانت هذه العظام بابًا!
من أين جاؤوا؟!
أظنُّ أن الذين ننظر إليهم يدخلون في أجسادنا عَبْرَ عيوننا ويصيرون دمًا و لحمًا.
وبعضهم يصير من المارة التائهين بين مفاصلنا.
… ونستمرُّ، هكذا، نسمع طَرقات على عظامنا.
إني أسمع الآن دقَّات ماء
وعليَّ أن أفتح.
© 1997, Wadih Sa\'adeh
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
Publisher: Dar Annahar, Beirut
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
Publisher: Dar Annahar, Beirut
Poems
Poems of Wadih Sa’adeh
Close
Bringing Back A Melted Person
This lake is not water. It was a person to whom I spoke at length, then he dissolved.And I am not trying now to look at water, but rather I’m trying to recover a dissolved person. How do people become lakes like this, which tree-leaves and algae top?
Drop by drop, the dead descend on my door.
A boat stops for me under the sun.
And a wretched fit of trembling returns to sand.
I didn’t shiver, but I went mad. The water is cold, but I didn’t shiver.
I just trembled a little. Then I went mad.
On the surface of the lake is a leaf. It was an eye. On the bank was a bough, which was a human rib.
I try now to gather the leaves and boughs. I try to gather a person I loved.
But many have passed by here. They gathered leaves and firewood to kindle their hearths.
Gathering together a person will never happen. Gathering a complete set of limbs won’t happen. Many of them were burned.
Nonetheless I must restore a person I loved. Loved ones must come back if you call them. They must come back even if they were water. If they were dead. If they were algae. Algae must become a human being when you summon it. And he will come, even if wet, if bloated, if rotten. It must come back a friend even if he died one thousand years ago.
There must be some way to gather people from the banks, a way to turn the
leaves and boughs floating on lakes into human beings.
I didn’t shiver. The limbs shivered. I had to plug the space between their joints in order to stop their shivers so they would still.
But how very protracted is the distance between joints!
I run slowly like the last drop of water which came down, and was too late to flow.
I run slowly scrambling to catch up with the running, and evaporate by and by.
I won’t make it. Part of me will come to be in space and part of me will sink into the earth.
I’m late for my comrades and won’t make it. I creep on but I won’t make it.
Pieces of me I lose, pieces accompany me exhausted, and pieces become free-floating particles.
Even if I make it, which thing of me will make it?
Around me is grass and pebbles and dirt. Birds peck at part of me. Ants eat part of me. And part of me belongs to the grass and pebbles and dirt.
I run slowly, and above me rises a thread of me, and below me descends a thread of me. I run slowly between two needles stitching my nothingness.
I came down the last drop. I was in the cloud and came down. Am I looking for a person who dissolved or am I the one dissolving? Or have I, from searching so much for his dissolution, dissolved like him?
And I’ve come, instead of searching for him, to search for me!
I see on the way people going by. Part of what remains of me sees people.
These, most likely, haven’t lost a person they love. Or they lost him and despite that are completing the way?!
I don’t know how our legs don’t stop walking when we lose a person we love. Weren’t we walking, not on our feet, but on his? Wasn’t the whole excursion for his sake? Wasn’t he the excursion?
How can one walk if he’s lost a person? I stopped. He was the one walking and I his follower. I was the one walking in him. When he stopped, I no longer had feet.
I’m late, creeping, and I’m evaporating. How then will I bring back a person who has dissolved? Mustn’t I, more precisely, bring back myself first? Come back at least as a whole drop of water coming down on a leaf, on an eye, on a rib, on a shore?
Mustn’t I, in order to extract a person from algae, be at least of lake water?
I’m late and I won’t make it. All that I can do is see. I see from far off. Distorted vision from the eye of a thing that is not cloud nor water nor solid nor vapor.
Then I don’t see.
All of this is merely imagining. A glooming dark imploring glooming dark. I will not see and I won’t make it and I won’t restore a person and I won’t bring him back . . .
I just am trying to creep along. I’m trying to catch up to my comrades.
But they’ve come to be far off, very far off.
Perhaps in the past I was a person searching for a person who had dissolved, or perhaps I was the one dissolving. Now not even a drop. And in my frightening identification between the water and vapor and the person, I search for a name with which to introduce myself when I meet up with the ants and grass and birds.
You are creeping like me. You will necessarily stop on a protrusion. Send me out a cry from there, and I’ll name myself with it.
Identifying between water and solid and vapor. Even so I have joints!
And there are empty places between my joints.
Waters crash into them. Winds crash into them and people crash into them.
Many people now traverse my joints. I don’t know whence they come or whither they go. But they crash against my bones.
People I encountered once; people I encountered many times; people I have never encountered . . . but they gush out now, and bang on my bones.
I must open these bones so they may enter.
If only these bones were a door.
From whence have they come?!
I think that those we look at enter our bodies via our eyes and become flesh and blood.
Some of them become some of those straying past between our joints
and we continue thus hearing the raps on our bones.
I now hear water knockings
I must open.
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
Bringing Back A Melted Person
This lake is not water. It was a person to whom I spoke at length, then he dissolved.And I am not trying now to look at water, but rather I’m trying to recover a dissolved person. How do people become lakes like this, which tree-leaves and algae top?
Drop by drop, the dead descend on my door.
A boat stops for me under the sun.
And a wretched fit of trembling returns to sand.
I didn’t shiver, but I went mad. The water is cold, but I didn’t shiver.
I just trembled a little. Then I went mad.
On the surface of the lake is a leaf. It was an eye. On the bank was a bough, which was a human rib.
I try now to gather the leaves and boughs. I try to gather a person I loved.
But many have passed by here. They gathered leaves and firewood to kindle their hearths.
Gathering together a person will never happen. Gathering a complete set of limbs won’t happen. Many of them were burned.
Nonetheless I must restore a person I loved. Loved ones must come back if you call them. They must come back even if they were water. If they were dead. If they were algae. Algae must become a human being when you summon it. And he will come, even if wet, if bloated, if rotten. It must come back a friend even if he died one thousand years ago.
There must be some way to gather people from the banks, a way to turn the
leaves and boughs floating on lakes into human beings.
I didn’t shiver. The limbs shivered. I had to plug the space between their joints in order to stop their shivers so they would still.
But how very protracted is the distance between joints!
I run slowly like the last drop of water which came down, and was too late to flow.
I run slowly scrambling to catch up with the running, and evaporate by and by.
I won’t make it. Part of me will come to be in space and part of me will sink into the earth.
I’m late for my comrades and won’t make it. I creep on but I won’t make it.
Pieces of me I lose, pieces accompany me exhausted, and pieces become free-floating particles.
Even if I make it, which thing of me will make it?
Around me is grass and pebbles and dirt. Birds peck at part of me. Ants eat part of me. And part of me belongs to the grass and pebbles and dirt.
I run slowly, and above me rises a thread of me, and below me descends a thread of me. I run slowly between two needles stitching my nothingness.
I came down the last drop. I was in the cloud and came down. Am I looking for a person who dissolved or am I the one dissolving? Or have I, from searching so much for his dissolution, dissolved like him?
And I’ve come, instead of searching for him, to search for me!
I see on the way people going by. Part of what remains of me sees people.
These, most likely, haven’t lost a person they love. Or they lost him and despite that are completing the way?!
I don’t know how our legs don’t stop walking when we lose a person we love. Weren’t we walking, not on our feet, but on his? Wasn’t the whole excursion for his sake? Wasn’t he the excursion?
How can one walk if he’s lost a person? I stopped. He was the one walking and I his follower. I was the one walking in him. When he stopped, I no longer had feet.
I’m late, creeping, and I’m evaporating. How then will I bring back a person who has dissolved? Mustn’t I, more precisely, bring back myself first? Come back at least as a whole drop of water coming down on a leaf, on an eye, on a rib, on a shore?
Mustn’t I, in order to extract a person from algae, be at least of lake water?
I’m late and I won’t make it. All that I can do is see. I see from far off. Distorted vision from the eye of a thing that is not cloud nor water nor solid nor vapor.
Then I don’t see.
All of this is merely imagining. A glooming dark imploring glooming dark. I will not see and I won’t make it and I won’t restore a person and I won’t bring him back . . .
I just am trying to creep along. I’m trying to catch up to my comrades.
But they’ve come to be far off, very far off.
Perhaps in the past I was a person searching for a person who had dissolved, or perhaps I was the one dissolving. Now not even a drop. And in my frightening identification between the water and vapor and the person, I search for a name with which to introduce myself when I meet up with the ants and grass and birds.
You are creeping like me. You will necessarily stop on a protrusion. Send me out a cry from there, and I’ll name myself with it.
Identifying between water and solid and vapor. Even so I have joints!
And there are empty places between my joints.
Waters crash into them. Winds crash into them and people crash into them.
Many people now traverse my joints. I don’t know whence they come or whither they go. But they crash against my bones.
People I encountered once; people I encountered many times; people I have never encountered . . . but they gush out now, and bang on my bones.
I must open these bones so they may enter.
If only these bones were a door.
From whence have they come?!
I think that those we look at enter our bodies via our eyes and become flesh and blood.
Some of them become some of those straying past between our joints
and we continue thus hearing the raps on our bones.
I now hear water knockings
I must open.
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