On jongle les identités créées et détruites à chaque moment pendant le passage du temps, s'accrochant à cela qu'on appelle arbitrairement "l'autre", oubliant soi-même et l'autre dans le même geste. On est habitué à la navigation de ce terrain d'aporia qui est taillé (regardez la taille de la cicatrice, regardez les douves). C'est notre patrie, notre Sion.

... steigt sie langsam immer höher

The ocean's dreary rush came in as waves,
a spoken word unheard but strong and cold from inside out.
It carried the thoughts adrift;
they ran ashore
somewhere miles and years away, tired and drenched throughout.
The hourglass, turned;
the hand, unseen,
offered itself,
and the sand slipped through
as those thoughts through the narrows,
barely, surprisingly.
Stopped breathing. How long?

If they should sink,
the thought:
what would I do?
If they should sink,
the sigh:
where would they go?
If they should sink, would they have ever been?
Atlantis.
A space, where water bends.
Did heaven once upon a time close in upon the earth?
Where and when and how did they embrace...
A revelation in reverse?
(Cover it up, cover it up.)
But sand cannot retreat, and we cannot but look;
our eyes drawn in with the water.