A fine wind blows into the heart,
And you fly headlong on,
While love within the roll of film
Holds the soul fast by its sleeve.
Bird-like she steals grain by grain
From oblivion - and now?
She does not let you fall to dust,
Even dead you're still alive -
Not wholly but a hundredth part,
In muted tone or sunk in sleep,
As if you wandered through some field
In a land beyond our ken.
All that's dear and seen and living
Makes the same flight as before,
Once the angel of the lens
Has your world beneath his wing.
Arseniy Tarkovsky, 1957
in Andrey Tarkovsky, Bright, bright day,
Londres: White Space Gallery / The Tarkovsky Foundation, 2007