When we are old, our eyes will open wide and everything we knewwill exit through them, standing here and there, domestic order oftables, chairs and bed making room for what we are -- a rosethat passed between our hands will flower there, a place where wewere walking in a change of light, a star that we had shared when wewere far apart -- and we will gaze upon them, moving through our eyes.What other history is to be known? I do not think that we
will speak, but gestures will become our sentences, the past that isinside us unconstrained, wherever it had been emerging inthe light, close to hand. We are the world that embraces us,and of its silence we are given birth, the we that we residewithin a womb where roses, stars and chairs in their enigmas are.When we are old, we will step carefully about us, mysteriesof where beginnings are, of our being rose, possessing us.
