| Where the only experience common is separation, |
one will only hear the amorphous language of separated life.
|There is no empty space, everything is inhabited.|
|All motherfuckers have addresses.|
|What we inhabit inhabits us.|
|What surrounds us constitutes us.|
|I do not like to remember things any more.|
|I like one little band of winds that blow|
|In the ash trees here|
|For we are quite alone |
Here 'mid the ash trees.
|Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.|
|What times the swallow fills.|
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight.
|I have no song.|
|Free us, for we perish|
In this ever-flowing monotony.
|Blind eyes and shadows|
The broken sunlight
|In the slow float of differing light and deep,|
|No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,|
Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.
|Moss you are,|
|Tree you are,|
|You are violets with wind above them.|
|A child- so high -you are,|
|And all this is folly to the world.|