Migration

In the pupils of your eyes I am seeing my face, just as I am, flushed by the circling of fresh blood in thousands of capillaries beneath my skin. In you I come out of nothingness, I take shape without being lost, without emptiness: on the line of time, on the route of cities with a thousand names and yet nameless. I take shape, free of any name, and entranced in the now, in the calm of a cat — purring in sleep — in the angle of the arms of the room’s walls and the shelter of a safe roof. The cities in my mind have become nameless, even shapeless, and languages are incomprehensible, even meaningless. My sky is your eyes; my homeland, your arms; and our language — ah! open your arms...