Subtle Light

The light caresses. It doesn’t illuminate. And what remains, speaks in silence. 

There’s a moment, in the late afternoon,
when light doesn’t illuminate—it caresses.
And what remains, speaks in silence.
In that instant, nature reveals itself in its purest form.
A single spikelet becomes a gesture.
A line traced in the air.

It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t grow anymore. But it still exists. It endures.

Where the world rushes, it pauses. It bends, but doesn’t break.
It holds the gold of a vanished summer,
a fragile reflection,
a light shadow on the dark background of time.

It’s an ancient form of writing, made of fibers and silence.
A vegetal ideogram, carved into nothingness.
As if the earth itself had wanted to leave a message
for those who still know how to observe without hurry.

The spikelet is the emblem of a threshold:
between what has been and what remains,
between fullness and emptiness,
between voice and echo.

And perhaps that’s where beauty hides:
in the fragile balance of something about to disappear
yet still speaking.
In a whisper, like light does
when it no longer tries to be seen
but simply allows itself to be felt.

A voice coming from afar,

somewhere between shadow and revelation.

Like that spikelet: silent, yet present.

“Look up here, I’m in heaven.”

That’s how Lazarus begins — with a line that already feels beyond. Not a statement, but a quiet realization, a step into the invisible. That’s why this song accompanies the image: because that lone spikelet, bent in the shadow, no longer fully belongs to the earth. It’s suspended, fragile, yet still endures. Like a message left for those who know how to listen.

Lazarus is one of the final songs David Bowie recorded, released just a few weeks before his death in January 2016, as part of his farewell album Blackstar. The title refers to the biblical figure of Lazarus—the man called back from death. But Bowie doesn’t portray resurrection in a triumphant sense: it’s a threshold, crossed with clarity and intention.

The music is slow, hypnotic. A pulsing bass opens the track, followed by dissonant saxophone lines and drifting melodic phrases. Everything feels suspended, poised between presence and absence. Bowie’s voice—deep and distant—carries the weight of someone who knows he’s leaving, and chooses to do so with grace and beauty.

The video, rich in symbols, shows him blindfolded, floating—like a prophet, like a vision—offering a farewell that is also a revelation.

“Lazarus” doesn’t console, but it illuminates.
Like that subtle light that no longer demands to be seen,
only to be felt.