THE LIGHT IS THE SEED

Time is fleeting and the world is crumbling or being erased with the same old hatred and the same wars. We haven’t learned a thing. But the white light still saves us, the light of that island that I carry and do not carry in my eyes, that same light of the verses of a sea that I hold inside me even from afar.

Or are they traveling on my lips?

I think it is the light of the verses of Sappho and Horace; those belonging to Shelley and Keats; those of Valéry; Quasimodo; Seferis; those of Espriu; Aleixandre; Gil-Albert…

But also the light that Montaigne, Goethe, and Nicolas Poussin came seeking from above, and finally found.

I visited Poussin’s grave a few days ago, in Rome, it stood there covered in a different light (of gold). And I dreamt of enjoying the serene happiness that Poussin must have felt during his last days, while drinking a small glass of good wine sitting in the shade of a roman vine, contemplating the ruins and the same pines that he made eternal in his paintings.

The ruins: dead-living souls of landscapes and souls of that light, a beautiful symbol that still –but until when? keeps giving us the joy of an illuminated thought. We can still live dreaming of the white light, we dream on and live on, waiting, waiting for the light that is more light.