Membra Jesu Nostri
Dietrich Buxtehude
The limbs of our Jesus
Our memories are now fables since the
contact of our bodies has been interrupted. Our memories are fables that we never lived, together. Like yesterday I seek a little comfort in the warm wind of the Libeccio, but slaps I receive
not caresses, cold blades of Tramontana cut the skin and I see my hands cracking like crust of black bread and around an icy sky, a sick sun: our
memories are fables, memories-fables.
