The finger of the cyclone is the hand of god. Spun from
the air of a still day, air balanced eye within eye, overseeing
the fabric of our gentle lives. Air of a calm day, and if in this
calm day there runs a gentle wind, it could remind me of the 
shimmer of golden hair when the judging angel nods absolution.

    Between the air inside the cyclone and the air outside is
spun a single thread, is wrapped in spiral pattern around
the formless hand, and top joins bottom in a single loop of
a single substance where nothing is unbalanced, where nothing
is consumed. 

    The cyclone's finger is the hand of god, action without
substance, substance without form. And who guides the cyclone's
finger? What guides the hands of men? Who is guilty? Who is guilty?
Who choose the weave of this thread? Weaving thread without
substance by our lives without form?

    From the tip of its finger, the cyclone regards us with
an eye of air. The same air which on a still day looks at
us serenely, does not know to ask of who is guilty? and
who is guilty?


                             1983 Barcelona                 book->