Do you remember the seraphim in that Romanesque fresco we were looking at in the room of the Master of Pedret? They looked straight at us, hands outstretched, as if they refused to die under the effects of depigmentation that was erasing them from the kingdom of light. They’re symbols of love—Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna—peeling and leaping with the passage of time. You’ve emptied my life of angels and left me with the painful clairvoyance of memory: all their eyes scattered on my wings, eyes that don’t want to sleep, eyes that think of you, and know you, and don’t know you.
Translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.