Another translation of a passage from Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body
We opened limbs and tap to tap, we foot danced under a big sky.
We could not say happy even with the sun in our fingers.
There are rivers and roads beyond the lintel and swung hinges.
We will be at the grass plain, because we belong to the wide open.
This room is too small to hold the galaxy, or even a small world.
If we stand, spread our arms corner to corner, we trace Braille bitten walls.
Celestial suspensions hang above us and grow to solar systems.
The story starts as worn and unraveled and frayed to ragged.
On this earth, Newton is forgotten as a temporary oblivion.
In droughts, we become trees and tap roots prospecting for an open fist.