#863 Untitled

From the sun outside it.

The Tagus in the background is a blue lake,
and the hills of the far shore are a flattened Switzerland.

And all that remains of this is I,

a poor abandoned child that no Love wanted as
its adopted son and no Friendship accepted as its playmate.

They crown themselves with night and the stars,
and anoint themselves with silence and solitude.

We weary of thinking,
of having our own opinions,
of trying to think in order to act.

Again,
fluid and uncertain,
the rain pattered.

I've never visited a sick friend.

What I don't accept is that he not know what addition is or how it's done.

I'm not ashamed of feeling this way,
as I've discovered that's how everyone feels.

When we grasp an attractive body,

it's not beauty but fatty and cellular flesh that we embrace;
our kiss doesn't touch the mouth's beauty but the wet flesh of decaying
membranous lips; and even sexual intercourse,
though admittedly a close and ardent contact,
is not a true penetration,
not even of one body into another.

Sometimes the air fills up with incense.

My attention oats between two worlds,

blindly seeing the depths of an ocean and
the depths of a sky; and these depths blend
they interpenetrate,
and I don't know where I am or what I'm dreaming.

—Rev. Walter Wyatt, Ensaio sobre a Intuição