/fdata%2F0606912%2Favatar.png){kind=avatar}
Out of Otherness (August 15, 1975)
«It’s something like dreaming»
(A voice whose memory is lost, perhaps)
(A voice whose memory is lost, perhaps)
«Hi», says her voice.
Her voice!
He has never heard her voice,
that’s sure, however
he recalls, he knows, and
before turning around
he knows to whom the voice belongs.
So he fears to turn around, and
then he turns around slowly,
and there she is,
her face, her eyes, her eyebrows,
her lips, no makeup,
her smile, hair, shape,
locks like water…
For years and years
he did quest for her to no avail.
He recalled her and her name
though no one seemed to know her,
no one seemed to have heard of her,
no one seemed to recall her name,
and even the most thorough chronicles
did not mention her, nor her name,
nor anything akin to her.
Nothing was known of her.
He knew, however.
He had seen, however.
He did keep a volume about her,
with a paper and a portrait, and
searching the archives
he had found that volume,
same number, same date,
same papers, but without
the paper which told something of her,
and without her portrait.
He owns, however,
that unlikely volume, and
he has seen her, he has seen
her shapes, he has believed
himself crazy until now, and now
she is there before him,
and she smiles, and
his throat is dry, his lips
are cracked and glued, so
he’s unable to greet her.
«The town is waste», she says.
«We’re alone like last survivors.»
He likes to think so, and so
he nods, while his lips unglue.
«You’re the only one
I saw walking around
these last two weeks, at least.
I come here every day.
Are you from here?» she aks.
He denies it.
«Are you…» he stammers. «Are you…?»
«Yes», she says. «I am.»
And then she tells her name.
Everything matches.
He smiles.
She begins to talk
and they walk arm in arm
for a long time,
and talk together
for days and days,
even when the town
is coming back to life, and
it’s just like a wonderful dream.
Her voice!
He has never heard her voice,
that’s sure, however
he recalls, he knows, and
before turning around
he knows to whom the voice belongs.
So he fears to turn around, and
then he turns around slowly,
and there she is,
her face, her eyes, her eyebrows,
her lips, no makeup,
her smile, hair, shape,
locks like water…
For years and years
he did quest for her to no avail.
He recalled her and her name
though no one seemed to know her,
no one seemed to have heard of her,
no one seemed to recall her name,
and even the most thorough chronicles
did not mention her, nor her name,
nor anything akin to her.
Nothing was known of her.
He knew, however.
He had seen, however.
He did keep a volume about her,
with a paper and a portrait, and
searching the archives
he had found that volume,
same number, same date,
same papers, but without
the paper which told something of her,
and without her portrait.
He owns, however,
that unlikely volume, and
he has seen her, he has seen
her shapes, he has believed
himself crazy until now, and now
she is there before him,
and she smiles, and
his throat is dry, his lips
are cracked and glued, so
he’s unable to greet her.
«The town is waste», she says.
«We’re alone like last survivors.»
He likes to think so, and so
he nods, while his lips unglue.
«You’re the only one
I saw walking around
these last two weeks, at least.
I come here every day.
Are you from here?» she aks.
He denies it.
«Are you…» he stammers. «Are you…?»
«Yes», she says. «I am.»
And then she tells her name.
Everything matches.
He smiles.
She begins to talk
and they walk arm in arm
for a long time,
and talk together
for days and days,
even when the town
is coming back to life, and
it’s just like a wonderful dream.