I’d like to be old and whittled smooth,
gentleness itself
I’d like to be old and whittled smooth,
gentleness itself

A bell of the Holy Ghost!

You make me, move me,
dwell in me, and beckon.
What without you
do I do at all?



William Kentridge at Eye Amsterdam
Dead letters, those gods,
rise to climb the sky of the mind.
They screw on stars to make words
and leave us to raise their babies.
