The Little Rug

A weft wound around a warp as if the weft of time around the warp of a slender sapling, without chains, with fruit, with growing. As if the weft of silk around the warp of a carpet, without a label, with flowers, with nightingales. A carpet fell from a loom onto the ground. Big or small? It makes no difference, for in any case it was a weft that wound around a warp. As if I wound around you as if we wound together around each other rolling, fell onto the ground. As if cell by cell our bodies paired together spread out the shapes of our embrace on the soil, and wove the pattern of the flower, the nightingale. In a small room? Or a great meadow? It makes no difference, for our little rug has been unrolled with no return to the distant time of leaflessness with no return to the dark time of loneliness...