Ciclo CCCXII

The canal stinks of iron and slow decay; the page, yellowed at the margin where the candle has licked it, bears the stain of time but not its weight; the bird—ah, the bird—waits on the branch like a thought suspended between volare and cadere, neither lift nor fall, only the suspended breath of seeing. All three are vessels of passage: the canal carries what is heavier than water downstream, the page carries what is heavier than memory upstream, the bird carries the unspoken between earth and sky—each a channel for what cannot be held, only passed through. The third thing they are about together is the ungraspable made visible by the act of letting go.