What Can I Say Without Touching The

In This Part Of The Story I Am The One Who Dies, The Only One, And I Will Die Of Love Because I Love You, Because I Love You, Love, In Fire And In Blood.

You Are Like Night, Calmed, Constellated. Your Silence Is Star-like, As Distant, As True.

Someone Will Ask Later, Sometimes Searching For A Name, His Own Or Someone's Else's Why I Neglected His Sadness Or His Love... But I Didn't Have Enough Time Or Ink For Everyone. Or Maybe It Was The Strain Of The City, Of Time The Cold Heart Of The Clocks.

Sometimes A Piece Of Sun Burned Like A Coin In My Hand.

The Word Was Born In The Blood, Grew In The Dark Body, Beating, And Took Flight Through The Lips And The Mouth. Farther Away And Nearer Still, Still It Came From Dead Fathers And From Wondering Races, From Lands Which Had Turned To Stone, Lands Weary Of Their Poor Tribes, For When Grief Took To The Roads The People Set Out And Arrived And Married New Land And Water To Grow Their Words Again. And So This Is The Inheritance; This Is The Wavelength Which Connects Us With Dead Men And The Dawning Of New Beings Not Yet Come To Light.