I feel as if I am a nothing but a hard shell. Like the chocolate bunnies you get around Easter. Except I am not made of chocolate. I am a shell of brittle bone and thin skin. At any moment a pin will drop out of the sky, and I will crack into thousands of pieces. I will be a pile of dust on the floor. I don’t know exactly when I started to become like this. Fragile and still. Maybe it was a long time ago, and over so many seconds my hinges began to creak. There is nothing here in my world but the wind. It never ceases in its attempts to blow me down. I understand, that is just the way it works. I wait for that day.
Sick of those who come with words, words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered island.
Wilderness has no words. The unwritten pages
Stretch out in all directions.
I come across this line of deer-slots in the snow: a language,
Language without words.