hidden inside the night.
Nighten it
to wake its labyrinths:
it darkens, within,
further within;
words fall like leaves
into abysses of timeless autumn.
Erode my thoughts
until the weeds
destroy the labyrinth,
and its leaves conceal
its ancient meaning
to reveal a new one to me.
Then its words will be born.
What was the last thing,
who was the last person,
to make you think?