When the world has been reduced to a dark wood I will find you,
a taste of ashes floats on the air. The musk is in the deer,
the fire in the wood. What new constellations of torment rise
for me now? Like weak prey torn open I have bared my innermost
hidden pulse to my killer. And if I become the ancient traveller
I shall go down the path the air milky and spiced with trade
winds with rose leaves in closed jars. Here it has the sublime
confusion of a dream we cannot remember. The great fire which
illuminates us and sings in our flesh leaves us a husk of
helpless shadows. Again these same thoughts that fall and fly.
Whistlings of death and unheard music. I have been humiliated
by the destructive powers of my own love. I have confessed an
appetite that is unspeakable. At the time of telling blood
flows from each eyelash pieces of the heart that come through
the eyes.