The letters’ flesh illuminates before the eyes of fishers, in great lassos gathering the alignment into words that quiver like butterflies caught in the nets of the curious, between fingertips void of passion. Almost burning, upon the tracks of non-beginnings wagons of letters assemble. They fight with gravity in the deaf screech of the wheels avoiding putrefaction. They wait for another world to begin. Time, not blind, watching the struggle of the words with clipped wings tending toward heavens undefiled by man, laughs at them with amnesiac pathos. The Undivided Word slips over the crown senselessly in astral descriptions and myths made of clay, dust wrapped in shrouds of the dead, triangular like a tent over frightened bodies. The Undivided Word from letters itself fashioned vibrates in the silence that decomposes both meanings and stars. It is a war of clipped words, nearly rotted, in forms meant to hold a world in specific lassos— a horizontal prison of vectors, of waves, of loops, of strings and trumpets. It is a war of commanded words the history of the world created in illusions, word-images projected on the dark canvas that surrounds the Earth cursed to be ruled by the word. Peace stretches in the silence beyond the flesh of incarnated letters. Time, blinded by the light of silence, dissolves into the molten lead of the letters— meaning meant for creation has fallen mute.
