- I have seen appear through the branches the dome of the royal palace. But I can't spot it now.
And the King:
-You're dreaming. Sticks are seen only..."
It is not the forest of milk of Dylan Thomas nor the mysterious jungle of Emilio Salgari. It is – just and nothing less – a handful of twigs that the time dried and the eye finished to dissect and isolate, until they float in black chamber, turning them into ideograms of an underground pondering.
Each branch is itself a singular intention of the world but, at the same time, it tends its fragile and rough arm towards the next one, like the one who looks for help or offers the thin top of an interrogation to be shared.
Reduced to its minimum and most eloquent expression, this homeopathic forest is transformed into Sublunar Syntagma: If the forest is uncovered and the tree unfathomable , this brief consortium of branches, rather than to phrase those totalities, is able to insinuate the silent work of the form learning to birth.