Before the rest of us becomes the dust carried by light beams

The history of words is our history, preached the librarians from their chairs with tall backs, form their spiraled staircases in mahogany old wood, as if talking from a pulpit, as if the dust was speaking on their lips, dancing in the light, sweeping labyrinths of wainscots and railings.

Somewhere there is the Portrait of Dorian Gray, elsewhere Pygmalion, elsewhere Alice through the Looking-glass, there is still evidence about how man’s search in the mirrors changes reality, about why God commanded us not to make graven images, those envied charmed mirrors that can see things around our world like in Snow White’s story and aren’t all books just mere mirrors or graven images?

The follow-ups of words in their riverbed from origins to the seas in their etymological dictionaries trying to give a meaning to the word religion or breath, or the bookish explanations of the Da Vinci’s colors in the Virgin of the Rocks, the ancient cultures, the continents that can no longer be discovered in our limited edition dialogue among civilizations, the soteriological scripts and the history of Flemish tapestry in the 16th and 17thcenturies the words crushed one over the other like butterflies under the white shirt of a book.

And atop heaps of wheat and hay in the granary, where only the fine dust was speaking, two bodies of newlyweds, with their limpid auras, made love, protected by the light of the sun, touching one another only by their fingertips, golden and young.