FIRST WORLD
The air is thick with fertility,
In grains it rolls down the arms.
I do not speak anymore,
But the body grows words,
The body that sings vertigosly.
For the milk there are no veins still.
Imagined, all flows,
Still unproliferated.
Fog on the Coast of Harmonies.
Black downfall is the first memory –
Carving floating steps
In a World so young
That it still has not learnt its flight.
One flight rewards one summer.
One summer, one child will flourish in Winter.
Thus centuries are carved –
Crossed pillars
In the sered Forehead’s speech.
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