A appeared without warning and left his lap the field spikes. His body amarilláceo of intricate long, addresses the hills I see from the road. It was a siege at night, because you never sensed what was true-breeds. Wheat has issued the stay of the spring and I ingratiated himself with the gods fertile. Spikes, looming cast aside by the wind, shown in the distance, the uniformity of a poem. In a poem which I will never stop unpronounceable trace or sound or hint. It is the relentless inability to make, as does the cosmos in the distance, as does the light in the deep, soundless harmony.
remember the first time I read a biography of Bach, I asked myself that question that goes unnoticed, a biography. It was at that moment, I realized that the biographies are annexes or adjacent to the lived and they never will deposit or closure of any of what was experienced. Beyond any philosophical theory, body detached from the soul, is what we are, because what really matters and never happens to us happens in our life. The brands that will become are mere footprints in the wet sand of our forgetfulness. These geniuses, Bach, Pessoa, Plato, Cervantes, Montaigne would not appear in his works or show clear or decisive influence over them. What we must understand is that these geniuses, so named because of his mysterious life, were the same literature, the music itself. Pessoa is literature. Bach's music. Montaigne's essays, so he wrote. Are these subjects, their preaching.
That is the virtue of the nature and the cycle that do not belong, but we want and we cling. Is the invisibility the membership of which will be a whole while being ever. And that sublime consciousness, so elusive, is the desire and renunciation, at the same time, of life. Be music such as wheat dawned. Be the literature appears to be whispering the air without being noticed.
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