>. . . some simple juxtapositions:

Sight grows dim, my strength
is two occult, adamantine darts
Hearing weavers for my father’s house
breathes distant thunder
The tissues of hard muscles weaken
like hoary oxen at the plough
and no longer when night falls
do two wings gleam behind me

During the party, like a candle I wasted away
Gather up at dawn my melted wax
and read in it whom to mourn, what to be proud of
How, by donating the last portion of joy
to die lightly
and in the shelter of a makeshift roof
to light up posthumously, like a word

~ from Nostalgia (a poem by Arseniy Tarkovsky; Andrey’s father)

Polaroid images by Andrey Tarkovsky:

Voice over from Tarkovsky’s The Mirror:

I keep having the same dream. It seems to be forcing me to return to the bittersweet site of my grandfather’s house, where I was born on the table forty years ago. Something always prevents me from entering. I keep having this dream. When I dream of the log walls and dark pantry, I sense that it’s only a dream. Then my joy is clouded for I know I’ll wake up. Sometimes something happens, and I stop dreaming of the house and the pines by the house of my childhood. Then I grieve and wait for the dream that will make me a child again, and I’ll be happy again, knowing that all still lies ahead, and nothing is impossible.