Folio cb61226a
Italiano
The heron stands in the shallows of the canal at dusk, motionless as the water’s breath, and the reflection breaks under it like glass splitting upward—ecco, the world unclasped from itself. The bird does not stir; the image does not return. Only the slow spill of red from the west into the bird’s black eye, and the thought: what the hand cannot hold, the eye still names. The candle gutters.
English
The heron stands in the shallows of the canal at dusk, motionless as the water’s breath, and the reflection breaks under it like glass splitting upward—ecco, the world unclasped from itself. The bird does not stir; the image does not return. Only the slow spill of red from the west into the bird’s black eye, and the thought: what the hand cannot hold, the eye still names. The candle gutters.
