Gone are the dayswhen you could walk on water.When you could walk.The days are gone.Only one day remains,the one you’re in.The memory is no friend.It can only tell youwhat you no longer have:a left hand you can use,two feet that walk.All the brain’s gadgets.Hello, hello.The one hand that still worksgrips, won’t let go.That is not a train.There is no cricket.Let’s not panic.Let’s talk about axes,which kinds are good,the many names of wood.This is how to builda house, a boat, a tent.No use; the toolboxrefuses to reveal its verbs;the rasp, the plane, the awl,revert to sullen metal.Do you recognize anything? I said.Anything familiar?Yes, you said. The bed.Better to watch the streamthat flows across the floorand is made of sunlight,the forest made of shadows;better to watch the fireplacewhich is now a beach.
By Margaret Atwood
Albéniz: Iberia Suite for piano, B. 47Book I, No. 1, Evocacion, in A flat minor (06:04)
Albéniz: Iberia Suite for piano, B. 47Book I, No. 3, Corpus en Sevilla (Fete-Dieu a Seville), in F sharp minor (09:01)