From a tiny spout, it slowly begins to take form, Filled drop by drop, from the contributions of a storm, Every single memory, every moment, a part of the deluge, And when you cross the banks, they have no refuge.
When the boundaries of humanity are marked by endless sand, And yet you know, beyond the water, there’s more land, When there’s no more land, than the place you stand, And yet the water keeps seeping right through your hand.
Soft and inquiring, like the chirping of the first bird, Slowly joined by others, yet soft, as if almost never heard, That is all I can remember about your first word, There were more important things that then occurred. At
Where footsteps have never yet made sound, And yet everybody is forever on moving ground, Where hands have never yet known the meaning of touch, And yet reality is the only thing completely out of touch. Where every word has
For a second, all seems quiet in this primeval forest, But only a second, silence is something they all detest, Each to itself, noise is their only music, their only protest, For, asking for understanding, is too formidable a request.