Images by Lukas Arbogast. Words by Phil Grossman. Sounds by Sigur Rós.
"Open eyes that look at nothing,
calloused hands that rip off the dark veil,
to let the light in like every morning,
since the beginning of time and before then,
she makes the newborns cry.
Forceful, you can feel her inside you,
inside your veins and inside your head
singing her silent song
that clenches up your chest as you try to hear it.
At sunset I sit and watch her
let down her dark hair that covers the sky,
and wait for her fingers to run through as comets,
milky, white stars that wink at me
almost as if she cares
that for the moment I'm fine,
because we're together.
But at night I lose her love
because she needs to go,
when I close my eyes,
so she can touch them in the morning.
And yet I think I see her
when I look at her eyes in the mirror,
but it's not until the shield is gone,
when the fatigue comes and I'm vulnerable,
that I see her
naked in front of me.
Too hard to understand,
to explain,
when everyday you thought you confessed your love,
but when you see her naked,
beckoning you forward with open arms,
you run into sleep.
"So run sweet child," she says,
"run back into the veil I took off,
that I will take off in the morning,
into the sleep where time stops to exist,
and instead blends into meandering dunes,
that sway softly on a star's rays,
purply and saphire dripping down like water,
into the cup you drink each morning,
to forget where you were last night.
But don't be upset because
you were afraid to kiss my hand,
it was too much to bear,
to see life living in your mirror,
your clotheless body exposed."
26 авг 2024
