And after all, nothing has been said.
As age-worn clothes of ignis fatuus,
the words are watered over the things,
impregnated by absences and nostalgias
shapeless and no returning back,
they flutter in an ephemeral kiss of chimeras
chaining to the uninhabitable time
and space of the other,
of the irrecoverable, of the deposed
in an impregnable distance,
devastated beyond all measure.
In vain we open and close them,
we raise them up from the dust and nothingness
and we braid the round of world
among the swinging crackling of its threads.
Beyond, beyond,
always beyond, into the depth
of its fateful roots made of brittle, sound crystals,
we dig after the height vein of every thing
until bring it into word under its shadow
and we watch them shine and burn and we shout: "Eureka, eureka!",
rapturous by the ecstasy and glory of what is never said,
of what is inextricably unpronounced.
Sign over sign,
figure over figure,
we push the human dream against the uncertain
design of vastness,
and we strum the notes of being with the dignity
of a Sphinx carven from sand and clay.
