When you look at me I do wondrous things,
the fingers gain the precision of keys
opening more doors within stones and trees
and the voice a sound of shared secrets,
hidden amongst other names unknown,
but nothing in the perfection of all things created
that we had when we looked from here to the other side.

I only do whatever I do because you gaze at me so,
with the eyes of a child waiting for miracles to happen,
for something to bring the sensations of fire
to my rusty fingers and a breath of words,
stronger than ideas, that renders new, again,
this gesture, this supplication, this nothing
that only repeats and changes while losing colour.

Amazing is to watch you harvesting words
behind shadows, under loose stones,
from gestures copying copies from what remains
or offer them to you till distances are gone
and amongst us stays only this beach of sand,
so fine from the silence sweeping feet and hands
like the thick sea inside everything.

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