In the White Room
In the white room, silence learns to breathe.
On the walls, the clouds have stopped running.
They no longer carry the sky:
at last, they offer themselves to the gaze.
There are cumulus clouds with rounded shoulders,
slow as morning thoughts,
and further on, delicate cirrus,
phrases whispered by the wind.
Each photograph is a window
opened onto a moment that no longer exists,
a sky gathered before it came undone.
Light glides over the paper
like a tamed sun.
The shadows, delicate,
remind us that even air has weight,
that the fleeting can leave a trace.
We move forward gently,
afraid of making the rain fall.
The clouds answer one another from frame to frame,
a scattered family,
an archive of movement,
a portrait of a world changing without a sound.
And one leaves the exhibition
with eyes raised a little higher than on entering,
holding this fragile certainty:
to look up is already
a kind of journey.
Anonymous