You are acute lightning, and I, the chronic flame. This is the way of our
common earth to bond us.

You shoot upwards, splitting the sky. I care for the scorched rocks, to
make sure that warmth is there when you come crashing down from your
promethean ascent.

Though it is Wednesday, and I bleed through the tree of knowledge, I do not
hang, nor am I debtor to the conflagrated keeper of the spring wells' boon.
Your wisdom springs forth like roman javelins clearing my way from too much
peace.

You speak to me of a land, of oaken groves, and I believe you. No hills of
pale death soften our climb as we joïk ourselves to the droning beat of
drumskins.

I allow the wind to steadily blow my sails. You carry the breeze running to
stand still.

Was this, then, not yet your creed? Will it not be mine? We forget the
essence of this time-tissue, maya, sparks from the blacksmith's forge.
I become the anvil. You become the sound of hammer blows.
I look down at all these words and love you recklessly.



(finais de agosto)