The Watchmaker's Song

I. The first dream and the first chant of the young watchmaker

It is only this wind’s chant
Steeping deep in my ears
The enchanting flowers blooming far away
The chant of the virgins from the sapphire kingdom,
The chant of old clocks with gold wheels,
The chant of old bristlecone pine trees, cypresses, and Sequoia,
Like the mother-goddess and the father-god.
Only this wind guides me
With his velvet-dragon eyes
Till the sea of seas,
The dawn of dawns,
Up till the girl in the clouds who lies up there
And here too, somewhere in the night inside of me.

II. The encyclopedic dream of the watchmaker

It is possible to construct a square with an area arbitrarily
close to that of a given circle. If a rational number is used
as an approximation of π, then squaring the circle becomes
possible, depending on the values chosen. However, this is
only an approximation and does not meet the constraints
of the ancient rules for solving the problem. The transcendence
of π implies the impossibility of exactly "circling" the square,
as well as of squaring the circle. (Wikipedia, 2018)

III. His notations on the edge of geometrical abstractions

Therefore Eve is imperfectly or dually constructed,
And Adam misses a rib,
That is a chain of mountains and valleys,
Like the violin body of a woman and like the whole body of the earth,
With ups and downs,
Because like our Father there cannot be
The being or the breathing of the woman,
And like His Son, there cannot be one Spirit
To keep each thing and every one of us in a sheath of sunrays,
On this kind of star named earth,
One day cold, another day warm is our heart,
Either close, either far are our eyes,
Blinded by the light, we think that our horizon is
A night lighted by the sparks of human minds,
Little is our thought, little is our love,
And our deed, it too seems little,
Like the tiniest clock in the world,
Like dandelion fluff is blown away in a whiff…

IV. The old watchmaker’s chant

The woman is not what it seems, the woman is always the same,
Either she’s a queen or a gypsy house painter,
Either she’s alone or an acclaimed actress,
Either she’s young like the unripe wheat, or old like the gnarled oak,
She is a woman
And her pure eyes are clean until the man brings in rust
And stops for some time
Between the small clock wheels in her mind.