the dress she removed;
on her naked lap,
the head of the day
which is unimaginable
radiates,
without annulling
the terrible voices
and descriptions
of the nocturnal
itinerary:
I spent the afternoon and early hours of the evening wanting,
still on that day
and before
it became morning,
to open the window over the river with the impression that I had slept in the river
and had just arrived there:
there was a brightness so intense that none could bear it, unless it were veiled; the bridge would come from above, overlying the sun. The birds flew within the water (to the depths), the boat sailed seemingly empty, although hands grasped the oars, which did not move; an even more intense light accompanied the boat, like a fountain born in the middle of the water; and, at times, words and phrases were inscribed in the birth of that light, which tumbled down to the place where Thomas Müntzer was going, his ears and his mouth.
From the banks, the crowd continued to loose expletives; but the Living Flame, falling flame after flame, covered the body: the ululating voices lowered their tone, only the green of the meadows where there were many white and yellow flowers followed the boat
it stopped in front of the window where Saint John of the Cross wrote; Thomas Müntzer raised his chest dewed with water; the shouting became singular, irresistibly drawing the current; a bird, emerging from the river’s depths, landed on his chest; the boat continued to glide alone, but traversed by flames:
Saint John of the Cross looked at the spiderwebs which, on the ceiling, edged the pale blue of the cornice and, at that moment, in the boat that was always descending the river (although always in the same place), Thomas Müntzer noticed that a horse swam nearby and that the crowd, reflected in its lustrous neck, had become a peaceful mirror.
Saint John of the Cross, turning to lower his eyes toward the page, as he had seen and not seen the ululating crowd, picked up Ana de Peñalosa’s hand, which she had abandoned on the table, put the pen between her fingers (although I ignore where you are) and wrote:
“among all three there were three people and one beloved being.”
He hid himself to write; but, first, he began by reading the book that held his infinite happiness
he remained at the beginning, but it had no beginning; it was its own beginning and, accordingly, there was no beginning; one in the other was like the beloved in their friend; and this love uniting them has the same value in them both, the same equality
as he was reading, he realized that he read standing, in front of his bookshelf
the art of fasting
distracted,
he looked at his ring finger on which Thomas Müntzer, while he had been headless on the boat, had placed a ring whose stone was his head to how could he hide himself to write
we will let him write, said the horse. We, John of the Cross and I, left for the river and the forest, on a morning of clouded sun; the horse wanted to go with us and we climbed up on its back; John of the Cross had several hands, the reins, and his hand on the horse’s neck. It whinnied a few times: we put a garland of flowers on its head. We immediately saw Thomas Müntzer lying in the boat, his severed head appeared in front of us,
the darkness hung
we moved toward the atrium of the house where we could only arrive at night, after many hours of river and forest and always on the back of the horse that, trotting, whinnied words
we, felt the heat of its blood under our legs, and the wide house was already nearing
on the first night, we would camp in front of it without going in, awaiting the boat in which Thomas Müntzer’s body traveled
we would find the summer house uninhabited, the lights on in Ana de Peñalosa’s room
on the other side of the bank would be the desert, the river, and the forest.
Late in the evening:
— The boat still hasn’t come. A pallet made of logs has arrived — In the place for his head lies a wreath of clovers.
He did not stop, nor the horse at his side.
— We passed in front of the house longingly, reading, throughout, by the light of the river, the writing made by the horse’s hooves — Saint John of the Cross’s feet left his sandals, rose up into the air — A woman in a large vestment appeared to us, the sun enveloped her and twelve stars crowned her head. She shouted painfully when a second sign covered the sky: an enormous dragon, red as fire, with ten horns on each of its seven heads, its entirety ornamented with a diadem; its tail lashed the stars and plunged them to earth; we returned to the horse’s back. Thomas Müntzer went on foot and we held his hands as if they were reins. We shuddered at the idea of entering the desert where the river and the forest — …before we came, they were already there. — (Ana de Jesus, in the laundry, ironed, the embers, lucidly, crackled. From time to time she read a few lines of the manuscript left in front of her atop the peaches. She heard them move away without opening the door to the courtyard or running to the window but, in thought, she began to accompany them, to go to their meeting, or even overtake them on the desert path; she folded the clothing, as “with this positive hope that descended on them from above, the nausea of work diminished,” or a mantle of sand, the noise she heard was that of footsteps approaching or moving away, she realized she was ironing with Thomas Müntzer’s head, his eye sockets burning. She read without stopping, confused by the book the earth began to surround her, she breathed in the fire with delight, lions, prayers, and crowds lingered in Thomas Müntzer’s skull, which he kept in his hand and on the ironing board.)
The boat finally moored and, from within, Thomas Müntzer’s body emerged. He went over to Saint John of the Cross, who was a man of moderate stature, face grave, venerable, burnished and attractive. On this bank of the river he was sitting by the water’s edge. A shadow drew the rest of the body he lacked, so they could talk:
— Nothing satisfies me when I am far from your company. — He put his hand in the water, which was then two hands seemingly severed at the wrists; he wanted to meet Thomas Müntzer — all he had to do was turn his head to see him. — Today, nothing satisfies me when I am far from your company. I went out to the island any number of times until I remained in this place. The crowd has moved away and no one will be able to prevent us from writing, we will penetrate further into the depths. — He had a pleasant manner and conversation. That same day he had reentered the community, after escaping from the prisons of Toledo where he had absconded down a rope.
— In this strange privation I have fallen into… — But when he saw Ana de Jesus leave the house through the trees with his skull in her hands and close to her mouth, and approach him, he leaned over in the position of someone reading:
—
