Coda

Of the secret Word of	Silence, even our mother
tongue does not let us	speak, except by turn-
ing us away. Our true words.	The words never spoken
are here. The words that do not	inhabit a voice resounding
in the air, are here. Read	as if they were not sus-
ceptible to any pronun-	ciation, mutely transmitted. By
the eyes. Passing over the	taut string of gazes, they can
stretch to infinity. Touch-	ing no lip, passing over
no body, the clarity	alloted to words.
Only absorbing the light	of the pupils. Through the eyes.
The true words that connect	us, never reduced to these
sounds; we see them dis-	tinct, their forms appear
clearly. The words that	shine in the pen-
umbra whose meaning sparkles	through one of those rad-
iant days, neither timbre nor	melody, which remains always
the words, these words here.	Intention to divulge them;
but impossible to recount	them in a language that
is entrusted to the voice; perhaps	with numbers they resemble
them a little, although un-	pronounceable, Word of
Silence.