“If you do not write or film”,
the director wonders,
”am I alive?”
“What limbo am I in
when the shooting stops?
When my camera no longer
holds the beautiful prism.”
His films stay the same,
only he changes,
exchanging the silver screen
for glistening tin foil
heated under with a match.
When his pain matches
the others, he prays.
When greater, he’s an atheist.
The films are his only company.
He lives with them and for them,
remembering the cinema of his youth
filled with the scents of ****
and jasmine and summer breezes;
remembering the cave
where he learned
to read the light,
understand its alphabet,
and eventually, vocabulary
with each discovered ray.
He smiles as the music track
of little angels being taught
by the local parish priest
to match his voice note
by note flickers in.
