This is your name --a woman said, and vanished through the winding corridor There I see heaven within reach. The wing of a white dove carries me towards another childhood. And I never dreamt that I was dreaming. Everything is real. I knew I was casting myself aside . . . and flew. I shall become what I will in the final sphere. And everything is white . The sea suspended upon a roof of white clouds. Nothingness is white in the white heaven of the absolute. I was and was not. In this eternity's white regions, I'm alone. I came before I was due; no angel appeared to tell me: "What did you do back there, in the world?" I didn't hear the pious call out, nor the sinners moan for I'm alone in the whiteness. I'm alone. Nothing hurts at the door of doom. Neither time nor emotion. I don't feel the lightness of things, or the weight of apprehensions. I couldn't find anyone to ask: Where is my where now? Where is the city of the dead, and where am I? Here in this no-here, in this no-time, there's no being, nor nothingness. As if I had died once before, I know this epiphany, and know I'm on my way towards what I don't know. Perhaps I'm still alive somewhere else, and know what I want. One day I shall become what I want. One day I shall become a thought, taken to the wasteland neither by the sword or the book as if it were rain falling on a mountain split by a burgeoning blade of grass, where neither might will triumph, nor justice the fugitive. One day I shall become what I want. One day I shall become a bird, and wrest my being from my non-being. The longer my wings will burn, the closer I am to the truth, risen from the ashes. I am the dialogue of dreamers; I've shunned my body and self to finish my first journey towards meaning, which burnt me, and disappeared. I'm absence. I'm the heavenly renegade. One day I shall become what I want. One day I shall become a poet, water obedient to my insight. My language a metaphor for metaphor, so I will neither declaim nor point to a place; place is my sin and subterfuge. I'm from there. My here leaps from my footsteps to my imagination . . . I am he who I was or will be, made and struck down by the endless, expansive space. One day I shall become what I want. One day I shall become a vine; let summer distil me even now,and let the passers-by drink my wine, illuminated by the chandeliers of this sugary place! I am the message and the messenger, I am the little addresses and the mail. One day I shall become what I want. This is your name -- a woman said, and vanished in the corridor of her whiteness. This is your name; memorise it well! Do not argue about any of its letters, ignore the tribal flags, befriend your horizontal name, experience it with the living and the dead, and strive to have it correctly spelt in the company of strangers and carve it into a rock inside a cave: O my name, you will grow as I grow, you will carry me as I will carry you; a stranger is brother to a stranger; we shall take the female with a vowel devoted to flutes. O my name: where are we now? Tell me: What is now? What is tomorrow? What's time, what's place, what's old, what's new? One day we shall become what we want.
Translated by Sargon Boulus
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