The hand laid fate on the lighter veil in the carved chair. They were times of the beginning and of the long noises of the night. In the carved chair, the place of the female body without owner, stiff. Almost nothing, potent, complete and barren as a busy church without haste, in silence. Breathed and thick.
In the immobility of the surrounding stones, in the brightness of the spears, in the discomfort of power, in the power of fear, the gaze and the gesture are closed, encompassing the day of flowers, the great morning of life.
It keeps the promise and the quiet of the people, the becoming of the nations. It keeps the indigo color of the new seas, in its black inside and spleen, in its relic body, reliquary. The body where life does not regret death and the kiss tastes like hot spices and blood. Body that slides, almost stops, shakes and palpitates, almost nothing, that whispers gentleness without unpleasant pleasure. Body where haste hangs in the chiseled outline of the boundaries.
Exiling axiom, black trip out of new, transparent and pure skin.
Fate, groove drawn in the field of dead and gunpowder, stubborn strife of men and shares and… her. She, divine mark, choice of the wise men of the Earth, first and last in the condition of the One.