Folio 060d3ccb
Italiano
The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had paused to consider what it was carrying. I watched one mote for what must have been a long time, and it did not settle. I thought of the soul — how it too is held, how it too turns in a medium we cannot name, and how no one has yet drawn the shape of the force that keeps it aloft. The hand wants to sketch it. The hand trembles. The mote is gone now — or I have lost it among its brothers. Dio sa dove è andata. I do not.
English
This morning the light came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had paused to consider what it was carrying. I watched one mote for what must have been a long time, and it did not settle. I thought of the soul — how it too is held, how it too turns in a medium we cannot name, and how no one has yet drawn the shape of the force that keeps it aloft. The hand wants to sketch it. The hand trembles. The mote is gone now — or I have lost it among its brothers. God knows where it has gone. I do not.
