ANIMAS

There are spirits, they say, who only come out of the rocks to dance when the wind dies down since they’re so thin their bones would snap.

We hear their soft nocturnal noise, under the window, in empty rooms—such music of uncertainty and hesitation, like a guitar when a string is about to break. And then it composes itself in the wind.

We seem to see their gradual dismembering, the quick shudder, the slight quiver, before they snap. And then fragments gather once again. What has gone returns in dark places. What’s broken often grows back. Nothingness lays an egg.

It is the hour, when frail twilight insects drift through long corridors and shed their wings, that a bell tolls from the campanile. It is a time to reflect on their distress: one that expunges shame, vanity, earthly worries, while they hide behind rocks away from the gust.

Fragile objects rupture at the slightest movement, collapse at indelicate moments, swooning into the egg of Night.