Hands make the world each day.

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Love is a clash of lightnings

For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.

I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don't know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors -- all bear the trace of someone's fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness.