a poem of rose ausländer speaks about ice, the inner ice, your ice, as it is called. what a strange ice it is. it is no ice in you, it is ice in us. it is not an ice which is there, and then at a time it has disappeared. it is an ice which is produced again and again, again and again, perhaps even because of the new itself. the coldness of this ice does not come from something lacking, like too few warmth, too few movements, no, it comes from the heat, from the too much, from crossing movements, from restlessness. it is the ice of functioning, the ice of the smooth actions, the ice of the power circuits.

in the poem of rose ausländer the ice does not break, but it melts. it melts, it is possible that it melts, in retreating to a place, in encountering a place which is unexpected, given, in transition. a volatile pearl it is called. in this way the ice can melt, for a releasing moment which somehow is eternity, until it is produced again, the ice, when time and targets have power again. for sure.