Must we go beyond the black holes of burned books?
The flight from the edge of circles leaves the dust behind.
Inside our wings are embedded the years.
In the sky we must part. The parallax is here.
I will pursue the centuries circling over the memories.
A single page flutters, rest of the book is silent
not skillful technicality, only a smuggled simplicity.
I fall into the stillness of a ceaseless motion, fall into yesterday.
The feeling to put out the bright candle is very strong.
A burning solitude.
Face to face with motionless dream
the wide space between letters unfold a meaning.
The absence of central thought was the essence.
Refusing to churn the evidence,
we forgot that our territories could not hold
the bliss of another self, of another relay.
