The Origin of Language
Women talk the jargon of shattered flowerbeds.
The sick talk from pain.
Stones from stoniness.
The stars mumble the gravitation of light.
To the prophet and illusionist the voice lends revelations.
The meadows are littered with alphabets of ants,
the cantilena of towns is a criss-cross of errands.
Only freedom speaks the patois of its own being,
which is freedom.
That speech is on the boundary.
It convenes the whole world
to the human ear.
Encircles us, as death encircles life.
Like wide-open doors we flap in time,
the hundred times safeguarded secret