Writing is born Poem by Antoni Vidal Ferrando

Many paths were waterways. Man scrutinized the equinoxes, scrutinized
labyrinths and, in holy places, rescued the memory of the dead.
Everything was strange and beautiful: the violence of the abysses, the
scarlet shadows, the wild marjoram scent of full moon, the panting of two
bodies that the forest concealed. Everything was rare and beautiful.
From his spiritual power over flint, over the secrets of chalky stone, man
made tools, caverns, the fleshiness and rhythms of Venuses; he made of
it a habit, like having two hands. Then he built hypostyle halls,
interpreted omens, established calendars. Man was thus, untamed, epic,
naïve. Then, one day, he surrendered himself to a harsh experience:
explaining being. He invoked the wind, sudden brightness, the geranium
pink of an angel, and produced his first scrawl.

Translated by Julie Wark