From the end of land as from the beginning

I came to the end of land and reached its beginning
in a shudder of moments, static as pauses taken in
between steps, not for meditation but of weariness.
It rains, in the end of land, a limpidity that is but
the one of such beginning, and thus, drains of
vestiges each and every inch of skin, of mine, it
soaks, until I sit, deliberately drenched, by the edge
of memory, with my feet hanging over the void.
From here, it is not the return that counts, but rather
the new colours of the next flood, and even in the
certainty unrefusable of the plunge, I test them
with the tips of touch. They don’t even surprise me -
I let them, quite simply, penetrate me, in a predominance
of yellows, yellows of sun, and of ponds made of
yellow sun splashes - and then of greens, dark greens
and bright greens and greens almost fading into the
spectrum of the blues that, in turn, went to the end
of the spectrum of grey boulders rolling like shadows
of clouds, and thus reached their beginning of drained
sky. Like this one of the end of land in which I let myself
fall as if I were rising. And from here I follow, as if I were
deriving, with no pauses, along the new ground, fluent -
the ground and I - with all the colours of virgin moments
and virgin sails.

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®