Wind and Waving Hands

There is nothing hidden behind the words.
It is all in them. In each one.
In their order, too, and in the full stops.

We can say them in a thousand and one ways
and nothing more.
Then whisper them, stammer them, wheeze them…
Read them again and again,
anew and anew…

And there is nothing hidden between the lines.
Neither music nor wind.
Look — music and wind are not born between lines.

All that is ambiguous is laid out on one table.
The table we once set together
out of hunger and love.

Lately, without falling silent, and so we wouldn’t have to,
we found the lost way to sense
one another, and each himself,

without writing, without speaking.
Without the gestures. Because beyond words,

after the touching and the waving of hands
and before our goodbye kiss,
we found the wordless way of understanding —
each from within, and one for the other.