藤蔓，抄写员，诗的比喻|The Vines

The Vines

A scribe in medieval monastery spent hours searching for the exact gold to be named and painted for vines around some saints in the manuscript, who picked leaves like words, held in their hands the berries like ripe wisdom. On the frayed margin, he described vine as a simile for poetry: out of the empty space, between trees the sketch of a small green cloud concreted by tireless outreach of tendrils layers and layers of leaves. Swirling, tying knots, looking for stanzas that echoed the tug of passion. Then, it was the scribe who toiled through the letters, sewing the fallen leaves before they shuffled into murmurs. As if language was the outcome of his hands. Or, maybe, as he continued: “It was the quill pen that made us discover the true shape of words; as it was the clock that actually invented Time.” The vines unfurled towards him, for many seasons as he ploughed for the unseen blossom A particular one, unseen, but as real as a metaphor.

想念布拉格和图卢兹