The first impact was made
by the open book.
He could smell its fragrance.
For him it was open
from the beginning.
It wasn’t only the recognition of the reader.
The book knew
that he was from its universe.
He had no stigmata, only the sign.
It was his shape.
The pages of the book
were like lips
waiting for the first impact
and his fountain pen
was like a sword,
a sacred one.
No hurt,
only devotion.
And his gentleness was accepted.
He read the book
with his fingering
like those used
with an instrument.
It was an instrument of Time.