Express yourself to me, I’m tired of your words
Give me your pen and don’t take your eyes off me.
Speak your madness in ways I’ll try to understand,
I’ve tried to do the same for you,
And I won’t take it but I’ll hold onto its
Structure like it is a beating heart itself.
I understand that there are words and pictures.
I know that they can bring tears and fill the chest
With the movements of love.
What is there in saying all this? Images remain,
The bearer of the words transmigrates, once
Here and now he is in a place from which no voices
Carry with them the promise of words, and so what is
Not here is what has always been, and forever
Doesn’t mean anything to the dead. And words don’t
Mean anything to those who have once lived.
When the world wakes up it will find a mess in
Incomprehensible words, and will find in them an
Abstract beauty beyond reproach, and will play with
Them and even try to decipher their meaning.
The origin of the words was hope for new
Articulation and a changed world, as though one.
Hear the words now before all words turn to
Fossil turn to litter turn to a new kind of empty gold.
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