1
The tree spoke.
It showed me its name
from which I took
a single letter
then my idea
was swept off
by the wind
with the leaves.
There
the abandoned day
lost its shape
The great idea had come
to its end.

2
The hand spoke.
Ahead of me
the day spilled its thoughts
and rested,
turning its back
to the night
I was forgotten
far away from all memory
stripped of yearning,
the door of speech
shut in my face,
my hands in chains,
my mouth biting the dust.