To be pure and not made from this world,
First, is to forget conditions
set to define the very I am, as I am known.
There will be no name to disturb my silence,
no words to call what I eat or divest,
everything I touch will not be known
but tasted or sniffed.
My eyes will not understand
the intention of tears
so I taste it
and its salty familiarity
will make me realize there is a sea inside.
Laughter comes from the same house
where the braying of grief is heard.

Words will sound as crickets sounds,
or leaves rustling, I fail at distinctions
being neither good nor evil,
no urgent need to grasp at clues,

Hungry,
I shall consider devouring you.