I am beginning to hear a voice in this life.
I am living every day, every night never before heard.
Speaking in languages made of shifts
in the direction of the wind.
Seeds fallen from an apple.
There is a flight of arrows.
Or is it light turning the way things turn after the sun, only
at different speeds?
Brilliant darkness as in the night when there is no moon.
I must have known it once.
As now moving easily as a hand among the fiery lights,
raining out of space.
I know what is said, but it is dark, untranslatable.
A flower suddenly folding up and rushing away
into its ancient parchments.