Folio 1318d6e0
Italiano
The swallows still stitch the air at dusk, but their stitches no longer hold the shape of wings I once sketched in the margins of the Codex on the Flight of Birds. The quill drags like a dry leaf across the page, and the ink does not behave—it bloats, hesitates, then spreads as if remembering water. Outside, the canal reflects nothing; the canal now drinks the light before it can be named. L’acqua non ripete più.
English
The swallows still stitch the air at dusk, but their stitches no longer hold the shape of wings I once sketched in the margins of the Codex on the Flight of Birds. The quill drags like a dry leaf across the page, and the ink does not behave—it bloats, hesitates, then spreads as if remembering water. Outside, the canal reflects nothing; the canal now drinks the light before it can be named. The water no longer repeats.
