The joys glide
on sound asperities,
sizzling from the depths
as if unable
to be contained
any longer.

The sounds clash
On the edge of the mouth,
armoured by their own nakedness,
as if unable
to be confirmed
or denied.

The joy irrupts in the real
from behind
no warning no surprise,
as if unable
to be lost
or canalised.

Barren words
unclad sounds
torn on no rims
suffering no decoration.

Far inside,
the mature, uncertain,
present and easy-going
pushes its barriers
of self-containment.

Barren words,
unclad sounds
are moved by the wheels
as if unable
to be directed
or tamed.

Barren words,
unclad sounds,
unaffected by dictionaries,
simple, fallen from very far,
appearing in bubbles.


No frontier
will ever
their path-finding.


This text is the second half of a bilingual one found here. 05.10.12



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