Now that my voice has become afflicted with sunspots, you will have to bend to listen, and bend again. In winter time, I describe the features of the cypress, methodical in the impress of leaf, eclipse, equator. After years of script and mediation, I conclude: the color red is blazing trumpets. There is no renaissance in your quilted fingers. In winter time, I describe the branches of the larch, its rutty flesh sewn with scars and formulas. Everything is named in darkness; the watershade overflow of chamomile. The contact of the window’s edge in the atlas of an endless afternoon. I know the soft gullies of my own face to be brown by touch, by association. What are the seasons to a statue? The color red is blazing trumpets and I am not alone. I do not wait and in winter time I know the alder’s shadow. Some say that Barcelona is an old cologne, and that Istanbul cannot be remembered, I only repeat what my tongue allows me to repeat. There are no similes in being blind: the color red is blazing trumpets.