Buried behind the masked myth of erudition lay I—
a broken marionette yearning for a bosom.
From tongue to tongue, from age to age, I
sought a friend.
I scampered around, swinging my
naked
stub. But for the fear of
frivolity and the scythe of judgement, I
unfurled not my letters upon the canvas of man.
But when I do, I
convolute my letters. I
raise high my quill. I
swing, supplicating, spraying:
Thus scribe I, with a foreign tongue, the lulls and yarns of yore—
a forlorn epitaph to a cursed populace:
thou for whom the bell I tolled, thee shall I forsake.
So wrote I
when I
left home.
The Book Of Life 