When I looked at the sky, I found that today, space and time converge as initial forces in the formation of the scientific view of origin. Of course, I want to know the scientific truth that is increasingly elusive to the common man. But truth no longer matters in living. It will never be possible to find a logical answer where truth is better than falsehood. And if this question matters only within ethics, the path of the complete human being, we will find that goodness is beautiful. Beauty, the flower, gives meaning to the song. Good is preferred to evil because it is right. We find beauty without seeking it. The beauty of the flower signifies the song of humankind. An encounter that completes a symbiotic, evolutionary, and natural relationship.
Only the voice of song builds human spaces. A space where tone and pause resonate. A space of air that inflates the spirit and constitutes it. The voice of temporal and evanescent dialogue is the space where we are a speaking community, where we are instruments of the existence of poetic dwelling.
Although the alphabetic past of our thought transformed 26 silent signs into the lines of the world map, speech and writing are far from being representations of each other. The I of speech speaks to a you who listens. The I who writes tells it about the silence of its thought. The written I tells the future I about the differences that time marks on being.
And it is song, the voice that sounds, that builds human space. But for song to be heard, it cannot only be an autophonic gesture that allows thought to be constituted. It is when it is beautiful and pleasurable that the meaning of poetic dwelling is founded. It’s not done to communicate difference, but to constitute the common ground of the space of linguistic inclusion to which we are cast as a natural species.
And in this poor attempt, my voice resonates in liberation. And just as what unites us separates us, these lines resonate in my mind like the desert inhabits this magical story. Logic is difficult to abandon, but truth is the wound closest to the sun. Correct and complete when one is what is foreign. Serene in peace when I am not. Only when good does beauty take pleasure. And the hearing of echoes remains in song. Cloud sky water falls. And clearly beholds the poem.
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