This is not the end...

I am sitting in a two hundred years old pagoda house, in the middle of a lake with green waters and red fish.

The stone-carved dragon's head sends water under wooden arc-shaped bridges.

Outside, the city of Shanghai roars vibrantly.



I am thinking about the two journeys: the visible across Asia and the invisible one...

I sense as I sit in solitude that double march of my being.

I saw, I touched the visible journey, all its details firmly fixed by matter.

But the inner journey flickers half invisible, stripped of any solid body.

I will have to catch it in words, if it is not to be dispersed...

Yes I know, the finest essence cannot be caught in the net of words, but something still remains - a subtle perfume that stirs our senses and reveals the invisible.

I feel my heart broadened these last weeks by my contact with the earth in solitude.

Something within me has ripened; someone within me has taken a step forward.

Leaning over my notebook, I try to follow this line that has moved...*





* homage to Nikos Kazantzakis
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