It comes and goes, it rises and falls.

It turns, predictable and predestined.

The dance creates stars without paths.

Time projects itself without goals.

Space opens without expectations.

Nature blooms without methods.

Bodies and energies, dwellers and dwellings.

It is born and it dies, it is here and then it is no more.

And where does the light of your true gaze arise from?

Where does the spark that is your magic begin?

From where does your word spring, the word that captivates and amazes?

Where is this silence that promises you eternal love?

Toward where do I turn my adoration, which is yours?

And is it in this where that, beyond the to-and-fro of your play, we are one?