- VIII - The wind in the hands
Crisp air this morning.
I perceive it through the walls of raw earth of this room. I don’t yet understand where I am. I’m confused and have a bit of headache and the slow awakening doesn’t help to think clearly. I hear a heavy breath and see at my side a thymiateria, a pottery perfurm-burner still smoking and, at my right, a brown feminine back half-covered by ruffled hair imprisoned by a copper spiral. Her perfume sweet and intense recalls me scraps of figures, of looks, of bodies an of sighs.
While I fall again into a daydreaming, in an uncertain drowse, the door opens and the old bearded man, made to break the enchantments bursts into the room bringing in the light and mist of the morning:
“Caile! The bag, the Lituus ... the head! Hurry up, let’s g
