Transparent herself, lovely water conforms herself to the
clarity of this glass I hold. Shapeless yet margined, she can do nothing but
generously lick the dykes of this vessel I hold. Lovely water, she who dances
when I foment so mild a shake, I ask you, what is your thirst? Do you seek to
rest in the abode I have conferred? No? In the corner, a lit candle stands. Her
flame laps the air in range and therefore takes fitful shapes. Perhaps you want
to trickle and draw yourself volatile contours like her. No? It is decided else
that you crave to be like the all-pervasive air. You wish to diffuse with all
your vigour – never confined, never defined. Tell me, oh your loveliness, what
happens to my glass – her purpose for which you have no respect, no whim of
clinching. My dear glass that pines for consummation yet allows lovely water to
seep out to seek her want, my sentiments is what you suffer. Words, with their
innate lawlessness, rebel succumbing to me and justifying my articulations. How
then will I form my expressions, carry my assertions, deliver my postulations? While
your water relinquishes you and my words fail me, I stand here as helpless as
you.
The glass I hold, I tell you, one would indeed be a fool to
believe that I have achieved to convey by these very rebellious words a
minuscule of my view.
