In Heraclitus’ River In Heraclitus’ river a fish fishes for a fish, a fish quarters a fish with a sharp fish, a fish builds a fish, a fish lives in a fish, a fish escapes from a beseiged fish. In Heraclitus’ river a fish loves a fish, your eyes – says she – glitter like fishes in the sky, I want to swim together with you to the common sea, oh, most beautiful of the school of fish. In Heraclitus’ river a fish invented a fish beyond fish, a fish kneels before a fish, a fish sings to a fish, asks a fish for an easier swim. In Heraclitus’ river I, the sole fish, I, a fish apart (say, from the fish tree and the fish stone) at certain moments tend to write small fish in silver scales so briefly, that could it be the darkness is winking in embarrassment? Wisława Szymborska (1997) ---------------------------------------- Heraclitus by Jorge Luis Borges Second twilight. Night that deepens into dream. Purification, forgetfulness. First twilight. Morning that once was dawn. Day that was morning. Overflowing day that will be a spent evening. Second twilight. Night, the other costume of time. Purification, forgetfulness. First twilight … In the dawn, the secret anguish of the Ephesian. What weave is this of will be, is, and was? What river lies under the Ganges? What river has no source? What river drags along mythologies and swords? Sleeping is useless. Through the dream, through the desert, through the cellar, the river carries me, and I am the river. I was made of delicate substance, mysterious time. Perhaps the source is within me. Perhaps the days emerge, fatal and illusory, from my shadow.
Posted on: Wed, 21 May 2014 16:58:22 +0000
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