I would like to know the answer.
You know it?
Sing a song for me. Then, I'll capture
Words from your voice and, like a
Fisherman, heave the words through
The water of life.
There is no end left. The end was abolished, when the writer, back from
Exile, had a black safe installed in the
Wall.
Decades afterwards, a medium-aged man
Will have been led into her nursery; the
Writer has passed away; in the fellowship
Of the words they are connected.
I tethered my words to the bonds of
Compulsions to open your mouth.
To fit the words into it, your mouth
Has to be unconditionally opened.
It's just a dream: Eden has disappeared
Amidst pedestrians; I'm calling her name.
But I only see strangers. Being sure
To have spotted her, a wave of relief
Is suffusing me.
Then this person is lifting her head: I'm
Looking into a stranger's face.
There Is No End Left