It is a broken day
When I bury the word,
Even if its hull shows it is alive and healthy.

The heart of the earth has been beating for so long calling it!
The word flies away to spend
Wanton mornings of its holiday,
Laying down in deliberate craving.

At noon it has an informal meeting
With other words and words
Concerning the future of a leaking text.
And they have dinner together
Grazing fresh paradoxes from green tabulae rasae.

Every evening at nine o’clock p.m.
A carnival occupies its heart.
A dark lavish affluence of dressed up glossy signs,
Like a late waterfall,
Leaves long shadows of light upon its tired old vowels.

The brown gaze of the night
Enfolds it in her drowsy cloth
Swaying it, teasing it, pondering it
Until it becomes a new lovely world.