The lovers lie in the field of becoming, because only they are mortal.
Such a priviledge
does not belong to businessmen and those unable to float. What time
the lovers know,the clocks only dream of. The tyrannies of this world
have little hold over them: they labor because they love,
not because they fear death, starvation.
They feed on insomnia, pianos, forests, thunderstorms, dice, oases.
They love because they are caught by the
currents of new becomings, the fields of force that surround and enflame
their bodies. They have made love in graveyards and smiled when the
ghosts danced around them. There is no world but this one. No utopia
but among others. The rain that falls on them makes the dried seedlings
of this world blossom. The rain that tears a hole in the curtain of space
to arrive,softer than starlight, among men. For a moment, no longer human,
the grass swallows them, their eyes lose all sight of things, and this river
drowns them. Power lines fall like owl. Electricity fails. People run from
their houses and start fires in the street. The promise of the lovers'
flesh touching has arrived.