***
In the Southern sunlight
I walked into the sterile
hand symphony of yours.
Before you had a second to resist,
I shot the image with my eye
and moved on
to your next ‘hand pas’.
I saw right through your fingers –
your innocence and inability
for sudden kisses,
your passion for simplicity and order.
I have recorded till the smallest skin cell
their ‘Rite of Spring’,
exactly as they had revealed themselves to me.
In your hands I found unstable harmony,
a happiness of a millisecond
that can’t be traced or photographed.
I heard right through your fingers
a symphony
I never heard before,
a symphony of an unborn composer,
played on an entirely new instrument – the closest to human voice reciting poetry.
The purpose of your hands
is anything
but mystery.
Your hand symphony
is a force
that balances your body and my soul,
and binds together
the parts of the two worlds:
Cyrillic and Latin,
the combination in which one reads sometimes magic,
sometimes miracles.
My longing is for nothing,
but to record
the music of your hands,
their inimitable rhythm that goosebumps over my skin,
conducts the consonance of the material and the invisible,
opposite to the philosophy
that calls everything to question, into doubt,
renders the world in pieces,
your hands give answers,
make the moment pure and complete.
Your hands are nature,
they are the arbiter of truth,
“nature does nothing
that is
not correct”,
as Diderot once said.
Your hands are the intonation
of the South,
my cold Cyrillic blood runs faster
at the sound of your fingers.
Only when you put them
into the pockets
the music stops.
My whole body,
however,
continues to speed
inside your hidden symphony:
fast – slow – faster
allegro – andante – presto.
I am seeing your hands –
they are in the pockets,
my mind is strolling
to the azure
blue sky
and then
to the azure green
grass –
I suddenly remember of Galileo Galilei
who once described
the resonance.
I think:
your hands are right
and always sing to me,
even when you hide them
deep inside your pockets.
