Octavio Paz

Sight, touch

Light holds between its hands the white hill and black oaks, the path that goes on, the tree that stays; light is a stone that breathes by the sleepwalking river, light: a girl stretching, a dark bundle dawning; light shapes the breeze in the curtains, makes a living body from each hour, enters the room and slips out, barefoot, on the edge of a knife; light is born a woman in a mirror, naked under diaphanous leaves, chained by a look, dissolved in a wink; it touches the fruit and the unbodied, it is a pitcher from which the eye drinks clarities, a flame cut in blossom, a candle watching where t he blackwinged butterfly burns; light opens t he folds of the sheets and the creases of puberty, glows in the fireplace, its flames become shadows that climb the walls, yearning ivy; light does not absolve or condemn, is neither just or unjust, light with impalpable hands raises the buildings of symmetry; light escapes through a passage of mirrors and returns to light: is a hand that invents itself, an eye that sees itself in its own inventions. Light is t ime reflecting on time.