Poem
Wadih Sa’adeh
The Beauty Of The One Passing On
The ones passing on quickly are beautiful. They don’t leave behind the weight of a shadow. Perhaps a little dust, which quickly disappears.The most beautiful among us is the one relinquishing his presence, the one leaving behind a clean open space with the vacancy of his seat. Beauty in the air with the absence of his voice. Purity in the dirt with his uncultivated acreage. The most beautiful among us is the absent one –
The one cutting off space and time with an agility which does not let place captivate him nor time scatter him. Scattering himself in the swift gusts, not leaving straw for his threshing floor, nor wheat for a field other than his. The one pulling out of the prerequisite of walking to arrive. The one pulling out of arriving.
The one passing on quickly is like an emigrating angel. Leaving no residence which could be a place for a sin, committing no sin, committing no act of staying.
Quickly under a sun which touches him not, under rain which wets him not, atop dirt which leaves no trace on him, quickly with no trace and no heritage and no legacy.
He didn’t stay enough to learn a language. He didn’t stay to absorb customs. He has no language and no customs, no masters and no apprentices.
One passing on is beyond language, beyond customs, beyond ranks, names and emulation.
With no name, beyond public summons and convocation
above gestures, except the gesture of passing on.
With no sound because sound is a heaviness in the air.
Because the sound may bump into another
it may crush another sound in space; it may disturb breezes
and with no desire, because desire is an abiding, a persevering.
Those passing on quickly are beautiful; they don’t abide in a place so as to leave repulsiveness in it. They don’t stay time enough to leave a spot on the memory of those abiding there.
Those who abided for long with us left spots on the fabric of our memory that we don’t know how to wipe away.
Painful spots – wherever one was on the seats, we can no longer sit.
Those staying for long take away our seats, turning the furniture of our homes into pieces of themselves. So that when we sit, we sit on their ribs, on their bones.
Those staying crush abiders. As for those passing on, they don’t crush anyone, and no one crushes them. They do not tread on beings, nor do they tread heavily on the earth. Even the air doesn’t espy them but a moment.
With no anxiety, with no regret, no gods and no adherents. They have one faith: Passing on.
The ones abandoning places, and native lands and parents and sons. The ones breaking the bond. The ones ruining gallows made of the iron of place, time, and belonging.
Those who hold fast to staying fall gradually, one after the other. They gradually fall down on their native lands which have become delusion. On their sense of belonging, which has become a lie. On their parental feeling which has become a burden, on their faiths which kill us and kill them and kill life.
The ones passing on have no victims. Is it thus in order to glorify life that we glorify its passage in haste, that we glorify suicide?
With the buoyancy of birds beating their wings, and the breeze opening up for them. With the buoyancy of the open air of passing on, and the scarring over of the air of release.
Ones passing on quickly, like the moment of snapping apart.
They have a sound from the sparrow, a glance from the branch, a quickly snatched whiff from the flower.
Their sparrows are for song and migration, not for imprisonment in cages, nor for being preserved forever stuffed in storefront windows. Their sparrows are the travelling spirit, not staying feathers.
And their flowers are the redolence escaping outside the vase.
Who would have discovered the beauty of passing on, besides migrants, those who don’t care, those dilly-dallying, the deranged, and the dead?
What moment uncovers life more than the moment of absenting oneself from it?
Is it because of that a friendship with the departure must be more than a friendship with the habitat?
And, is it because of that our life should be, only, an exercise upon the beauty of the departure?
The most beautiful of us are the ones departing. The most beautiful of us are the suicides. Who wanted nothing and whom nothing took in completely. Those who took one step in the river, enough to discover the waters.
The most beautiful of us are those who are not among us. Who left us lightly, humbly leaving their seats for people who may be coming now to this party.
A stupid party; and despite that, the ones clinging to staying leave no seat!
But what are the seats for, so long as the partiers start as guests and end as enemies?
So we can pass on lightly, then before the daggers devour us, before we become the main dish of the feast.
The moment of arrival at the celebration is the whole beauty of the celebration. After that, the beauty quickly becomes departure. The departing step is always the most beautiful.
The departing mingle with the fresh breeze. And when we stop to pay our last respects, we must also pay last respects to their memory along with them too. Because memory hampers their departure, it brings them back to their place, it makes them solid.
Memory hampers those who wish for death. It makes those desirous of life dead.
So let’s bury it, then.
Let’s bury memory as we sing.
It’s a stupid party in any case, but in view of the fact that we’ve arrived, let’s sing and dance.
For a few seconds, in which we may be beautiful
but the most beautiful of us will remain: the absent one.
جمال العابر
جمال العابر
العابرون سريعًا جميلون. لا يتركون ثقلَ ظلّ. ربما غبارًا قليلاً، سرعان ما يختفي.
الأكثر جمالاً بيننا، المتخلّي عن حضوره. التارك فسحةً نظيفة بشغور مقعده. جمالاً في الهواء بغياب صوته. صفاءً في التراب بمساحته غير المزروعة. الأكثر جمالاً بيننا: الغائب.
قاطعُ المكان وقاطع الوقت بخفَّةٍ لا تترك للمكان أن يسبيه ولا للوقت ان يذرّيه. مُذَرٍّ نفسه في الهبوب السريع غير تارك تبنًا لبيدره ولا قمحًا لحقل سواه. المنسحب من شرط المشي للوصول. المنسحب من الوصول.
العابر سريعًا كملاكٍ مهاجر. غير تارك إقامة قد تكون مكانًا لخطيئة. غير مقترف خطيئة، غير مقترف إقامة.
سريعًا تحت شمس لا تمسُّه، تحت مطر لا يبلّله، فوق تراب لا يبقى منه أثر عليه. سريعًا بلا أثر ولا إرث ولا ميراث.
لم يُقم كفايةً كي يتعلَّم لغة. لم يُقم كي يتشرَّب عادات. لا لغة له ولا عادات ولا معلمين ولا تلاميذ. عابرٌ فوق اللغة، فوق العادات، فوق المراتب والأسماء والاقتداء.
بلا اسم، فوق النداء والمناداة.
وفوق الإيماءات، إلا إيماءة العبور.
وبلا صوت، لأن الصوت ثقلٌ في الهواء.
لأن الصوت قد يرتطم بآخر. قد يسحق صوتًا آخر في الفضاء. قد يزعج النسمات.
وبلا رغبة. لأن الرغبة إقامة، ثبات.
العابرون سريعًا جميلون. لا يقيمون في مكان كي يتركوا فيه بشاعة. لا يبقون وقتًا يكفي لترك بقعة في ذاكرة المقيمين.
الذين أقاموا طويلاً معنا تركوا بقعًا على قماش ذاكرتنا لا نعرف كيف نمحوها.
بقعٌ مؤلمة، أينما كان على المقاعد، بحيث لم يعد يمكننا الجلوس.
المقيمون طويلاً يسلبون مقاعدنا. يحوّلون أثاث بيوتنا إلى قِطعٍ منهم. بحيث نجلس، إذا جلسنا، على ضلوعهم، على عظامهم.
يسحق المقيمون المقيمين. أما العابرون فلا يسحقون أحدًا ولا أحد يسحقهم. لا يطأون على كائنات ولا يُثقلون خطوًا على أرض. حتى الهواء لا يلمحهم غير لحظة.
بلا قلق ولا ندم ولا آلهة ولا أتباع. إيمانٌ واحد لهم: العبور.
المتخلّون عن الأمكنة والأوطان والآباء والبنين. كاسرو القيد. مخرّبو المشنقة المصنوعة من حديد المكان والزمان والانتماء.
إنهم يتساقطون، الواحد تلو الآخر، المتشبثون بالإقامة. يتساقطون بأوطانهم التي صارت وهمًا. بانتماءاتهم التي صارت كذبًا. بأبوَّتهم التي صارت عبئًا. بايماناتهم التي تقتلنا، وتقتلهم، وتقتل الحياة.
العابرون لا ضحايا لهم. هل لذلك بات علينا، كي نمجّد الحياة، أن نمجّد عبورها بسرعة، أن نمجّد الانتحار؟
بخفَّةِ خفقة الطير وانفتاح النسمة للجناح. بخفة انفتاح هواء العبور واندمال هواء الانطلاق.
عابرون سريعًا، كلحظة انقصاف.
لهم من العصفور صوت، من الغصن نظرة، من الزهرة شميمٌ خاطف.
عصافيرهم للغناء والرحيل، لا للسجن في أقفاص أو تأبيدها محنَّطةً في واجهات. طيورهم الروح المسافرة، لا الريش المقيم.
وزهورهم العبق الشارد خارج الإناء.
سوى المرتحلين، واللامبالين، والعابثين بالإقامة، والممسوسين، والموتى، مَن كان سيكتشف جمال العبور؟
وأيّةُ لحظة تكتشف الحياةَ أكثر من لحظة الغياب عنها؟
هل لذلك تجب مصادقةُ الرحيل أكثر من مصادقة الإقامة؟
وهل، لذلك، على حياتنا أن تكون، فقط، تمرينًا على جمال الرحيل؟
أجملنا الراحلون. أجملنا المنتحرون. الذين لم يريدوا شيئًا ولم يستأثر بهم شيء. الذين خطوا خطوةً واحدة في النهر كانت كافية لاكتشاف المياه.
أجملنا الذين ليسوا بيننا. الذين غادرونا خفيفين، تاركين، بتواضع، مقاعدهم لناس قد يأتون الآن، إلى هذه الحفلة.
حفلةٌ سخيفة، ورغم ذلك لا يترك المتشبثون بالإقامة مقعدًا!
لكن لِمَ المقاعد، ما دام المحتفلون يبدأون ضيوفًا وينتهون أعداء؟
لنمضِ إذن، بخفَّة، قبل أن تلتهمنا الخناجر، قبل أن نصير طبَقَ الوليمة.
لحظةُ الوصول إلى الاحتفال هي كلُّ جمال الاحتفال. وبعدها، سريعًا، يصير الجمالُ هو المغادَرة.
الخطوة المغادِرة، هي الأجمل دائمًا.
الراحلون يمتزجون بالنسيم. وإذ نقف نحن، لتشييعهم، فلنشيّعْ معهم ذكراهم أيضًا. لأن الذكرى تعيق رحيلهم، تعيدهم إلى مكانهم، تجعلهم جمادًا.
الذاكرة تعيق الراغبين في الموت. وتجعل الراغبين في الحياة موتى.
فلندفنها إذن.
لندفن الذاكرة ونحن نغنّي.
إنها حفلة سخيفة في إية حال، ولكن بما أننا وصلنا، فلنغنِّ ونرقص.
ثوانٍ، قد نكون فيها جميلين.
لكن أجملنا سيبقى: الغائب.
الأكثر جمالاً بيننا، المتخلّي عن حضوره. التارك فسحةً نظيفة بشغور مقعده. جمالاً في الهواء بغياب صوته. صفاءً في التراب بمساحته غير المزروعة. الأكثر جمالاً بيننا: الغائب.
قاطعُ المكان وقاطع الوقت بخفَّةٍ لا تترك للمكان أن يسبيه ولا للوقت ان يذرّيه. مُذَرٍّ نفسه في الهبوب السريع غير تارك تبنًا لبيدره ولا قمحًا لحقل سواه. المنسحب من شرط المشي للوصول. المنسحب من الوصول.
العابر سريعًا كملاكٍ مهاجر. غير تارك إقامة قد تكون مكانًا لخطيئة. غير مقترف خطيئة، غير مقترف إقامة.
سريعًا تحت شمس لا تمسُّه، تحت مطر لا يبلّله، فوق تراب لا يبقى منه أثر عليه. سريعًا بلا أثر ولا إرث ولا ميراث.
لم يُقم كفايةً كي يتعلَّم لغة. لم يُقم كي يتشرَّب عادات. لا لغة له ولا عادات ولا معلمين ولا تلاميذ. عابرٌ فوق اللغة، فوق العادات، فوق المراتب والأسماء والاقتداء.
بلا اسم، فوق النداء والمناداة.
وفوق الإيماءات، إلا إيماءة العبور.
وبلا صوت، لأن الصوت ثقلٌ في الهواء.
لأن الصوت قد يرتطم بآخر. قد يسحق صوتًا آخر في الفضاء. قد يزعج النسمات.
وبلا رغبة. لأن الرغبة إقامة، ثبات.
العابرون سريعًا جميلون. لا يقيمون في مكان كي يتركوا فيه بشاعة. لا يبقون وقتًا يكفي لترك بقعة في ذاكرة المقيمين.
الذين أقاموا طويلاً معنا تركوا بقعًا على قماش ذاكرتنا لا نعرف كيف نمحوها.
بقعٌ مؤلمة، أينما كان على المقاعد، بحيث لم يعد يمكننا الجلوس.
المقيمون طويلاً يسلبون مقاعدنا. يحوّلون أثاث بيوتنا إلى قِطعٍ منهم. بحيث نجلس، إذا جلسنا، على ضلوعهم، على عظامهم.
يسحق المقيمون المقيمين. أما العابرون فلا يسحقون أحدًا ولا أحد يسحقهم. لا يطأون على كائنات ولا يُثقلون خطوًا على أرض. حتى الهواء لا يلمحهم غير لحظة.
بلا قلق ولا ندم ولا آلهة ولا أتباع. إيمانٌ واحد لهم: العبور.
المتخلّون عن الأمكنة والأوطان والآباء والبنين. كاسرو القيد. مخرّبو المشنقة المصنوعة من حديد المكان والزمان والانتماء.
إنهم يتساقطون، الواحد تلو الآخر، المتشبثون بالإقامة. يتساقطون بأوطانهم التي صارت وهمًا. بانتماءاتهم التي صارت كذبًا. بأبوَّتهم التي صارت عبئًا. بايماناتهم التي تقتلنا، وتقتلهم، وتقتل الحياة.
العابرون لا ضحايا لهم. هل لذلك بات علينا، كي نمجّد الحياة، أن نمجّد عبورها بسرعة، أن نمجّد الانتحار؟
بخفَّةِ خفقة الطير وانفتاح النسمة للجناح. بخفة انفتاح هواء العبور واندمال هواء الانطلاق.
عابرون سريعًا، كلحظة انقصاف.
لهم من العصفور صوت، من الغصن نظرة، من الزهرة شميمٌ خاطف.
عصافيرهم للغناء والرحيل، لا للسجن في أقفاص أو تأبيدها محنَّطةً في واجهات. طيورهم الروح المسافرة، لا الريش المقيم.
وزهورهم العبق الشارد خارج الإناء.
سوى المرتحلين، واللامبالين، والعابثين بالإقامة، والممسوسين، والموتى، مَن كان سيكتشف جمال العبور؟
وأيّةُ لحظة تكتشف الحياةَ أكثر من لحظة الغياب عنها؟
هل لذلك تجب مصادقةُ الرحيل أكثر من مصادقة الإقامة؟
وهل، لذلك، على حياتنا أن تكون، فقط، تمرينًا على جمال الرحيل؟
أجملنا الراحلون. أجملنا المنتحرون. الذين لم يريدوا شيئًا ولم يستأثر بهم شيء. الذين خطوا خطوةً واحدة في النهر كانت كافية لاكتشاف المياه.
أجملنا الذين ليسوا بيننا. الذين غادرونا خفيفين، تاركين، بتواضع، مقاعدهم لناس قد يأتون الآن، إلى هذه الحفلة.
حفلةٌ سخيفة، ورغم ذلك لا يترك المتشبثون بالإقامة مقعدًا!
لكن لِمَ المقاعد، ما دام المحتفلون يبدأون ضيوفًا وينتهون أعداء؟
لنمضِ إذن، بخفَّة، قبل أن تلتهمنا الخناجر، قبل أن نصير طبَقَ الوليمة.
لحظةُ الوصول إلى الاحتفال هي كلُّ جمال الاحتفال. وبعدها، سريعًا، يصير الجمالُ هو المغادَرة.
الخطوة المغادِرة، هي الأجمل دائمًا.
الراحلون يمتزجون بالنسيم. وإذ نقف نحن، لتشييعهم، فلنشيّعْ معهم ذكراهم أيضًا. لأن الذكرى تعيق رحيلهم، تعيدهم إلى مكانهم، تجعلهم جمادًا.
الذاكرة تعيق الراغبين في الموت. وتجعل الراغبين في الحياة موتى.
فلندفنها إذن.
لندفن الذاكرة ونحن نغنّي.
إنها حفلة سخيفة في إية حال، ولكن بما أننا وصلنا، فلنغنِّ ونرقص.
ثوانٍ، قد نكون فيها جميلين.
لكن أجملنا سيبقى: الغائب.
© 2001, Wadih Sa\'adeh
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
Publisher: Dar Almasar, Beirut
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
Publisher: Dar Almasar, Beirut
Poems
Poems of Wadih Sa’adeh
Close
The Beauty Of The One Passing On
The ones passing on quickly are beautiful. They don’t leave behind the weight of a shadow. Perhaps a little dust, which quickly disappears.The most beautiful among us is the one relinquishing his presence, the one leaving behind a clean open space with the vacancy of his seat. Beauty in the air with the absence of his voice. Purity in the dirt with his uncultivated acreage. The most beautiful among us is the absent one –
The one cutting off space and time with an agility which does not let place captivate him nor time scatter him. Scattering himself in the swift gusts, not leaving straw for his threshing floor, nor wheat for a field other than his. The one pulling out of the prerequisite of walking to arrive. The one pulling out of arriving.
The one passing on quickly is like an emigrating angel. Leaving no residence which could be a place for a sin, committing no sin, committing no act of staying.
Quickly under a sun which touches him not, under rain which wets him not, atop dirt which leaves no trace on him, quickly with no trace and no heritage and no legacy.
He didn’t stay enough to learn a language. He didn’t stay to absorb customs. He has no language and no customs, no masters and no apprentices.
One passing on is beyond language, beyond customs, beyond ranks, names and emulation.
With no name, beyond public summons and convocation
above gestures, except the gesture of passing on.
With no sound because sound is a heaviness in the air.
Because the sound may bump into another
it may crush another sound in space; it may disturb breezes
and with no desire, because desire is an abiding, a persevering.
Those passing on quickly are beautiful; they don’t abide in a place so as to leave repulsiveness in it. They don’t stay time enough to leave a spot on the memory of those abiding there.
Those who abided for long with us left spots on the fabric of our memory that we don’t know how to wipe away.
Painful spots – wherever one was on the seats, we can no longer sit.
Those staying for long take away our seats, turning the furniture of our homes into pieces of themselves. So that when we sit, we sit on their ribs, on their bones.
Those staying crush abiders. As for those passing on, they don’t crush anyone, and no one crushes them. They do not tread on beings, nor do they tread heavily on the earth. Even the air doesn’t espy them but a moment.
With no anxiety, with no regret, no gods and no adherents. They have one faith: Passing on.
The ones abandoning places, and native lands and parents and sons. The ones breaking the bond. The ones ruining gallows made of the iron of place, time, and belonging.
Those who hold fast to staying fall gradually, one after the other. They gradually fall down on their native lands which have become delusion. On their sense of belonging, which has become a lie. On their parental feeling which has become a burden, on their faiths which kill us and kill them and kill life.
The ones passing on have no victims. Is it thus in order to glorify life that we glorify its passage in haste, that we glorify suicide?
With the buoyancy of birds beating their wings, and the breeze opening up for them. With the buoyancy of the open air of passing on, and the scarring over of the air of release.
Ones passing on quickly, like the moment of snapping apart.
They have a sound from the sparrow, a glance from the branch, a quickly snatched whiff from the flower.
Their sparrows are for song and migration, not for imprisonment in cages, nor for being preserved forever stuffed in storefront windows. Their sparrows are the travelling spirit, not staying feathers.
And their flowers are the redolence escaping outside the vase.
Who would have discovered the beauty of passing on, besides migrants, those who don’t care, those dilly-dallying, the deranged, and the dead?
What moment uncovers life more than the moment of absenting oneself from it?
Is it because of that a friendship with the departure must be more than a friendship with the habitat?
And, is it because of that our life should be, only, an exercise upon the beauty of the departure?
The most beautiful of us are the ones departing. The most beautiful of us are the suicides. Who wanted nothing and whom nothing took in completely. Those who took one step in the river, enough to discover the waters.
The most beautiful of us are those who are not among us. Who left us lightly, humbly leaving their seats for people who may be coming now to this party.
A stupid party; and despite that, the ones clinging to staying leave no seat!
But what are the seats for, so long as the partiers start as guests and end as enemies?
So we can pass on lightly, then before the daggers devour us, before we become the main dish of the feast.
The moment of arrival at the celebration is the whole beauty of the celebration. After that, the beauty quickly becomes departure. The departing step is always the most beautiful.
The departing mingle with the fresh breeze. And when we stop to pay our last respects, we must also pay last respects to their memory along with them too. Because memory hampers their departure, it brings them back to their place, it makes them solid.
Memory hampers those who wish for death. It makes those desirous of life dead.
So let’s bury it, then.
Let’s bury memory as we sing.
It’s a stupid party in any case, but in view of the fact that we’ve arrived, let’s sing and dance.
For a few seconds, in which we may be beautiful
but the most beautiful of us will remain: the absent one.
From: محاولة وصل ضفتين بصوت
The Beauty Of The One Passing On
The ones passing on quickly are beautiful. They don’t leave behind the weight of a shadow. Perhaps a little dust, which quickly disappears.The most beautiful among us is the one relinquishing his presence, the one leaving behind a clean open space with the vacancy of his seat. Beauty in the air with the absence of his voice. Purity in the dirt with his uncultivated acreage. The most beautiful among us is the absent one –
The one cutting off space and time with an agility which does not let place captivate him nor time scatter him. Scattering himself in the swift gusts, not leaving straw for his threshing floor, nor wheat for a field other than his. The one pulling out of the prerequisite of walking to arrive. The one pulling out of arriving.
The one passing on quickly is like an emigrating angel. Leaving no residence which could be a place for a sin, committing no sin, committing no act of staying.
Quickly under a sun which touches him not, under rain which wets him not, atop dirt which leaves no trace on him, quickly with no trace and no heritage and no legacy.
He didn’t stay enough to learn a language. He didn’t stay to absorb customs. He has no language and no customs, no masters and no apprentices.
One passing on is beyond language, beyond customs, beyond ranks, names and emulation.
With no name, beyond public summons and convocation
above gestures, except the gesture of passing on.
With no sound because sound is a heaviness in the air.
Because the sound may bump into another
it may crush another sound in space; it may disturb breezes
and with no desire, because desire is an abiding, a persevering.
Those passing on quickly are beautiful; they don’t abide in a place so as to leave repulsiveness in it. They don’t stay time enough to leave a spot on the memory of those abiding there.
Those who abided for long with us left spots on the fabric of our memory that we don’t know how to wipe away.
Painful spots – wherever one was on the seats, we can no longer sit.
Those staying for long take away our seats, turning the furniture of our homes into pieces of themselves. So that when we sit, we sit on their ribs, on their bones.
Those staying crush abiders. As for those passing on, they don’t crush anyone, and no one crushes them. They do not tread on beings, nor do they tread heavily on the earth. Even the air doesn’t espy them but a moment.
With no anxiety, with no regret, no gods and no adherents. They have one faith: Passing on.
The ones abandoning places, and native lands and parents and sons. The ones breaking the bond. The ones ruining gallows made of the iron of place, time, and belonging.
Those who hold fast to staying fall gradually, one after the other. They gradually fall down on their native lands which have become delusion. On their sense of belonging, which has become a lie. On their parental feeling which has become a burden, on their faiths which kill us and kill them and kill life.
The ones passing on have no victims. Is it thus in order to glorify life that we glorify its passage in haste, that we glorify suicide?
With the buoyancy of birds beating their wings, and the breeze opening up for them. With the buoyancy of the open air of passing on, and the scarring over of the air of release.
Ones passing on quickly, like the moment of snapping apart.
They have a sound from the sparrow, a glance from the branch, a quickly snatched whiff from the flower.
Their sparrows are for song and migration, not for imprisonment in cages, nor for being preserved forever stuffed in storefront windows. Their sparrows are the travelling spirit, not staying feathers.
And their flowers are the redolence escaping outside the vase.
Who would have discovered the beauty of passing on, besides migrants, those who don’t care, those dilly-dallying, the deranged, and the dead?
What moment uncovers life more than the moment of absenting oneself from it?
Is it because of that a friendship with the departure must be more than a friendship with the habitat?
And, is it because of that our life should be, only, an exercise upon the beauty of the departure?
The most beautiful of us are the ones departing. The most beautiful of us are the suicides. Who wanted nothing and whom nothing took in completely. Those who took one step in the river, enough to discover the waters.
The most beautiful of us are those who are not among us. Who left us lightly, humbly leaving their seats for people who may be coming now to this party.
A stupid party; and despite that, the ones clinging to staying leave no seat!
But what are the seats for, so long as the partiers start as guests and end as enemies?
So we can pass on lightly, then before the daggers devour us, before we become the main dish of the feast.
The moment of arrival at the celebration is the whole beauty of the celebration. After that, the beauty quickly becomes departure. The departing step is always the most beautiful.
The departing mingle with the fresh breeze. And when we stop to pay our last respects, we must also pay last respects to their memory along with them too. Because memory hampers their departure, it brings them back to their place, it makes them solid.
Memory hampers those who wish for death. It makes those desirous of life dead.
So let’s bury it, then.
Let’s bury memory as we sing.
It’s a stupid party in any case, but in view of the fact that we’ve arrived, let’s sing and dance.
For a few seconds, in which we may be beautiful
but the most beautiful of us will remain: the absent one.
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