the cave whose walls we first painted on....

Mark Rothko. Central triptych of the Rothko Chapel,
Houston, Texas. Oil on canvas. 1966

The Rothko Chapel, Houston, Texas.

1

This is the art of the beginning and the end.

Of the darkness of the womb,

coloured only by faint washes 

of light through flesh,

through blood.

Of the darkness of the galaxies,

or even darker.

Of space before time, 

and time after space.

Of the vast absence

broken only by faint clouds of dust.

The dust of stars that is our origins.

The dust of flesh that is our end.

2

This is the art of the innermost and the outermost.

Of our deepest within

and our farthest reach.

3

This is the dark, hollow music

of the Gregorian chant.

The thick stone walls of a Roman church.

And farther back.

This is the cave whose walls we first painted on.

4

This is the silent singing of blood in our ears.

The blood we are born in,

and our own quickened pulse.

The blood that will someday still,

and pool,

and cool in our veins.

5

This is the darkness

that surrounds us, 

that contains us.

That is us,

and is not us.

That is our essence

and our context, 

our matrix and our end.

Our forever more,

and our never was, 

and 

-- briefly --

our now.

6

This is the darkness

that gives meaning to the light.



Wendy Stefansson