Understanding the water
It's all in the
name, they told me after the injury has grown up to the fifth amber
floor down this eccentric plexus-like labyrinth.
But the name was
empty; and so was the jar where flowers had bedded their liquor in
consecutive days of whitened appraisal.
How does it work?
how come one stops understanding the water flowing at the surface,
touching one's arm, almost a faint caress, talking to you in the
voice of ancestors; how come your arm stops being the receptor of
disseminated nexus, now, again?
How come the meaning
of smell can so easily be remembered even without a trace of the
name, I can't think of.
How come I still
feel the salt in my mouth, the seaweed rolling through my tongue as I
breath in, chew, kiss, swallow?
Or so I thought,
that it was [empty], as I saw it soaring, half way between my left
heaven and right hand, a lost eddy fighting for no more than a safe
place inside.
I told them, we
should allow the essence to fill in its name. It shall then grow! And
stay,... in peace.
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