First the space
or first the question
first time
or first a dream
or first start.

We burn the frames, alright
we're building a cave, alright
we give titles purifying the look, alright
we do everything symmetrically, alright
We start a theory, alright?

Give us a building to present with formulas
give us a crowd around an altar of silence
give friends to ornament their rooms with sighs
give a book to speak the beauty
our belief in questions and answers without mercy.

Where do we put the waves
where do we place the fires
where do we spit the color
where is darkness the brightest
what is the place of the eyes?

Do you know what you know, painter
do you know what you show, painter
which ideas with which task
which things for which rooms
which matter at which size with which instinct?

We armour for fame
we count time in the sand
we cast our voices
we carry two mirrors between us
we hammer a house of words.

The sand seeks to lie down
the sand loves human hands
the sand conforms to everyone's desire
the sand deserves a temple
sand is a sign.

What is not a sign
what marks the absence
what is lacking in providence
what exists because of our absence
what is the maturing time of silence?

You blow the clay square
You dig holes in flames
You bless the leaking vaults
you burn the chapel black
You leave the air void

What is dispute in the singular
what is the space above the treshold called
what becomes the form of the unfinished
what does beauty want from my memory
what is a proper name for me?

What is dispute in the singular
what is a proper name for me
what is the space above the threshold called
what becomes the form of the unfinished
what does beauty want from my memory?

I stir in substances and liquids
I multiply all gestures imagined
I accept the sum of nullities
I withdraw when my hand releases
I walk backwards, writing.

Every handwriting, every print speaks for itself
every color, every surface lives on cohesion
every being, every pain implies a civilization
every memory, every view is symmetrical
every statement is a fragment.

The surface is without size and order
the surface does not demand your meaning
the surface proffers play
the surface is a cultivation of time
the field under my fingertips.

Things always take me as I am
there are always obstacles to celebrate
there are always gifts to be made
always is immeasurable time passed on the surface
always is the duration of dust.