Folio 1a664490
Italiano
The canal at dusk moves like a slow sentence whose meaning I no longer parse. The water takes the reds from the sky and turns them inward, as though the river were a pupil dilating. The reeds stand still enough to be written down, yet they do not write themselves. A heron lifts—its wings the only silence that is also motion—and the page before me remains blank, waiting for the weight of what has passed to settle into ink.
English
The canal at dusk moves like a slow sentence whose meaning I no longer parse. The water takes the reds from the sky and turns them inward, as though the river were a pupil dilating. The reeds stand still enough to be written down, yet they do not write themselves. A heron lifts—its wings the only silence that is also motion—and the page before me remains blank, waiting for the weight of what has passed to settle into ink.
