Threshold

When man’s dam shook, aspirated through the giant flaw of the abandonment of the divine, words in the distance, words that did not want to be lost, tried to resist the exorbitant pressure. There the dynasty of their meaning was decided.

I’ve run all the way to the exit from that diluvian night. Planted in the quaking dawn, my belt full of seasons, I await you, o my friends about to arrive. Already I discern you behind the darkness of the horizon. My hearth has not dried up with wishes for your houses. And my cypress stick laughs with all its heart for you.

René Char