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Freedom, barren clearing in the desert of possible things:
gaze, I am of a gazelle that emerges from a source of pitch.
.
.
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East — West: how much discord is in this little dash.
Many are the relationships that men have projected onto it: an inclusive relationship (East and West), an exclusive relationship (East or West), a relationship of identity (East is West).
This is not important, in the end.
I leave the burden to others.
The Catalan Jordi Savall, for example.
With his fingers on the strings of an ashwood lyre, having set aside the depths of the baroque cello for the occasion, he says all that can be said.
And he does it in silence.
The same instruments suggest a single musical world: it's the oud that scents of saffron and cumin, it's the space that fragrant percussion makes amber and honeyed. In an incense burner shaped by hands adept with bronze, an unspeakable sound smokes that seems like resins or hyacinth.
In the Alcazar of Cordoba, at the time of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, I would just like to return to drown in this synesthesia.
Sweet remedy.
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