Wan like the first snow, bare,
newly born among invisible gods,
captured by the fragrance of saps,
hidden away in resonant trunks.
Deaf and dumb, unacquainted with light,
only thirsty, only asking with wondering eyes,
What? Where? and Why?
With each step, farther from Eden,
from an answer, you become ebony,
like a book, blemished by death's ink.
In the morning searching for Eve,
lied by the long, occult shadows,
your heart and your step get caught
in each clump, cluster and cobweb,
and soon you forget the original tongue,
a – e – i – o – that's all you recall.
Fear is like a glue in your mouth,
a humble, broad sheet without words...