"Where do words come from?
From what rubbing of sounds are they born?
On what flint do they like their wicks?
What winds brought them into our mouths?
Their past is the rustling of stifled silences,
the trumpeting of molten elements,
the grunting of stagnant waters.
Sometimes they grip each other with a cry,
expand into lamentations, become mist
on the windows of dead houses, crystallize into chips of grief
on dead lips, attach themselves to a fallen star,
dig their hole in nothingness, breathe out strayed souls.
Words are rocky tears, the keys to the first doors.
They grumble in caverns, lend their ruckus to storms,
their silence to bread that's ovened alive."