Consider, no matter what, even something agreeable
falls so low: in the pureness
of metaphysics, in the sublime
brightness of nothingness.
In the cubic emptiness, in the number
of fire. It’s the bonfire
which causes inanity to burn. In the centre
no wind whatsoever blows. It is the fire
pure, pure nothingness. No being inhabited by faith,
there is no extension. The reduction of the world
to a point, to a number which suffers.
Because it is hideous, a symbolical endurance,
without the uncertain material which enlivens it.
Is it the unwaveringness of suffering
in itself… Like the night
© T. Wignesan – Paris,2013