of cool tears
till
the Ineffable
cries,
“Open your eyes.
See
wailing ones
he
is beautiful;
he is an archangel
the cross, skull-shod,
Death is the cross of winged moons
where hangs God.”
JOHN BROOKS WHEELWRIGHT
LUC
UNPUBLI8HED FRAGMENT8
LE DON
T HE SUN vibrated upon the vines, clement king, and the
red villages scintillated. O honey. Then came to bathe
in the lava of the stream. Pyx of azure and of gold, for
a god, shining and young, sound of flute and the treach
erous welcome of the shadow. The sweet torture of this
flame, when one can not be consumed by it and when everything
is akindle with oneself .. . Day too pure.
Luc remarked these things. His thoughts, flying away, made
a little dust. It is at this moment that he realized in himself the
entrance of grace. His heart hesitated a moment. In spite of
himself a fruitful fullness spread through him, like water hurled
from a floodgate. He no longer felt himSelf with precise boun
daries.
Then Luc was hungry. Hungry, physically hungry.
Hungry in all his five senses. And miracle! this hunger was
marvellously calm and marvellously surfeited. A slight drun
kenness, tender light, burned within him. His body became
clearer. An emanation of soul: one would say wings.