still at the park, near that bridge, watching the lake.. but are we really seeing it?.. or is it the image we want to see?
maybe it isn't important.. maybe we only want to enjoy it and wonder...
Let these verses from Jorge L. Borges, a great argentine writer, help us...
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror ,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.