Whatever Is Not Stone Is Light

We Are Condemned To Kill Time, Thus We Die Bit By Bit.

It May Seem Paradoxical To Say That We Have Been Expelled From The Present, But It Is A Feeling We Have All Had At Some Moment. Some Of Us Experienced It First As A Condemnation, Later Transformed Into Consciousness And Action. The Search For The Present Is Neither The Pursuit Of An Earthly Paradise Nor That Of A Timeless Eternity: It Is The Search For A Real Reality.

Two Opposing Forces Inhabit The Poem: One Of Elevation Or Up-rooting, Which Pulls The Word From The Language: The Other Of Gravity, Which Makes It Return. The Poem Is An Original And Unique Creation, But It Is Also Reading And Recitation: Participation. The Poet Creates It; The People, By Recitation, Re-create It. Poet And Reader Are Two Moments Of A Single Reality.

Distraction Is Our Habitual State. Not The Distraction Of The Person Who Withdraws From The World In Order To Shut Himself Up In The Secret And Ever-changing Land Of His Fantasy, But The Distraction Of The Person Who Is Always Outside Himself, Lost In The Trivial, Senseless, Turmoil Of Everyday Life.

Poet: Gardener Of Epitaphs.