(read letters in size 16 as a poem to: _______________ )
Inhabits, before predation,
the madness of a perpetual sunrise:
Lives before space, from beginning,
where start and finish,
aren´t more than juxtaposed masks between the imaginary and reality.
What would be of solitary space, without a container,
where time is time without name
and the new
what differs from habit.
What is being in idea, but an infinite absolute that discovers,
(the empty mirror)
as the only creative possibility.
Being before the first breath (where everything makes sense).
They´ve said of air,
the same as origin,
one never knows where it begins
(one never knows where it begins) squared.
Ignores, like the sky,
the distressed sound emitted by time.
that´s why perfect maintains,
the non physical oscillating in a continous melodic movement,
delaying time in a without something,
in the nihilistic field where everything coexists,
where no one claims connection
living expended on unknowing in all instance
and once in a while,
returning our eyes into the forgotten...
by dea arjona
this poem was written for me about a year ago by one of my best friends, i had to translate it today for some work i was doing, and hadn´t read it again since then, it stirred something in me i´m still trying to figure out. the answer is right around the corner i believe.