Because everyone, everyone, waits to be called sometime by their name, by
their own name which no one knows; not themselves, nor their earthly mother.
All wait to sometime be called by that father, whose hand and whose face we
have felt over our head in the form of prohibition in the early days, a shadow
over our pure forehead in the disturbing garden of childhood. And from whose
voice we thought we heard the distant echo, at our back, when in adolescence we
wanted to leave running past the limits of the closed garden. And whose glance,
among the clouds, has come diffused on our cheeks causing to rise in them the
fire of fear and of desire. We have felt it as an infinite aureole upon the
forehead and beyond the figure of our earthly father. And its voice has
reinforced one's own causing it to resonate towards the infinite. We all have
felt its unlimited presence upon our small, insignificant one. And we have felt
its presence giving meaning, power, to nature, "above the visible heavens"; to
the clouds as its vehicle, to the wind as "its winged steed"
