and there is evening and there is morning, the first day. i feel the world taking shape in myself. the light doesn't know of its light. the dark doesn't know of its dark. but then, they touch my soul. and they know each other, in me. i am the battlefield on which beauty is tired of being and claims a meaning. oh, blade of grass, seal my lips, cut my tongue, bind me to your nameless grace. make silence be enough, before the stone stirs into an answer. make solitude my crown.
the dawn of the second day finds my voice drawing the thin line between earth and sky. my reckless god, why did you put that black belt of loneliness upon the marshlands of my soul? i run circles around me and all i can find is this damp, forlorn earth on which, occasionally, a thistle blooms. i beg for a presence, the tiniest breath unfolding towards me.
contemplating the thistle's longing to become a poppy, it occurs to me that i need to be sly in order to lure people my way. i put on my best garment, cover my chest, wrists and ankles with dazzling gold. each of my movements sways in the air like a song. trails of scent swirl above the endless fields. with a precision that amazes me every time i witness the defilement, they place a seed of me in every thing. this is how the third day was spent.
souls are greedy, souls are hungry, i tell myself in the morning of the fourth day. they need to feed on more than such shallow waters. with unabated diligence, i start piling up treasures after treasures inside the caves of my being. i hesitate a little before ripping off the sun from its heaven. i cry when i tear down the stars with the fork of my solitude years. i go on about my business nevertheless. now they hang inside me. their light is suddenly heavy of history, i am the richest and oldest prey of this world. my fourty thieves, come.
people are lazy, i ponder on the morning of the fifth day. the effort of moving a hand to undress another soul in the dusk is too much for them. i will make it easier for you, my tribe. naked, i stand before you, like a black statue in the white valleys of the moon. i have learned from the nest to wait for roundness. in the evening, tired of such wingless patience, i send myself onto each road. i offer my soul at every curve of my courtesan thighs. i burn for you all. i am the whore of the high wheat.
contemplating my failure in the grey light of the sixth day, i am suddenly struck by the simplicity of the answer. people are so scared of each other. they only seek themselves in every shape of life. nobody wants to inhabit a soul that is already inhabited by a stranger. with fierce determination, i wipe out every trace of myself in the marshlands of my being. i look in the mirror and not even i can see my face. even from my shadow, i chased myself away. my sorrows hang on the walls of my memory, devoid of myself. i don't recognize myself in my joys. my emptiness glows. satisfied, the lack of myself sits down and awaits to be taken over.
finally, on the evening of the seventh day, something stirs beyond the horizon line. my old trembling limbs, my wild beating heart, see, see. blinded by tears, my shout has no echo. my beautiful friend, my brother, my beloved, you have come. you have come. don't wear out your delicate feet, i will crawl to you. we have found each other. our embrace will be endless, you will be i and i will be you. my only one, my sweet sister, my soul.
growing like a black cloud, like a black horse galopping towards me, was the hour of my death.