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The Motif the Water Whispered

The leaves had already been cut out as if with a dressmaker's pattern. I am the one who, feeling a slender bone in the intense sunlight which oozes out like waste matter, makes it into an artist's tool and tries to paint several small hazy scenes taking place just before my birth and which grow increasingly hazy. Already the vascular strands of the leaves of the Isu trees had been severed.

The initial, excessively painful measures for the purpose of life's bursting forth. It waits patiently for the leaves to droop limply over the others. When another man, shaking the tree's trunk, awakens inside, it rolls up the leaves like lost letters in which his distressing future is endlessly wrapped, and cuts off the leaf with one last bite, sending it to the ground. It is a cradle unloosed, meant for my bone-writing soul.

Bones of boiling water, swamp bones, waterfall bones, bones of the beach. At the end of one of the ensuing precious moments which these things gradually enfold, a faucet rusts while continually shining, cut off facing the blue sky. I flowed out from there, faster than one could press one's lips to it.

From February to March, 1950, the above was taught me by the whisper of the water all around.

Translated by Eric Selland