Some people, born in a strange season
are damned to Word,
and the Word changes their soul...
Their eyes gash the piece of stone
and they talk with the stone's facade,
their palms reach the trees
and become leaves,
and their thought, because its wings are the longest,
is left hovering somewhere, between sky and earth.
There can be nothing in them
besides the Word...
The Word is borne from their wounds,
he soothes the souls
and prepared in the secret hour
becomes Poem...