Like glass beads,
like granite tears,
like sweat of flint
silence drips …
drips.
In the halls and caves
where there vibrates
and reverberates,
terror
of ghosts and gods
outstretched like mummies
ruminating
in the threadbare arras
of the underground palace …
silence drips.
And the water organ
is washing out like a sash,
a dissolving smudge
of submerged violet.
Seconds are syncopated,
struck
with muffled beat …
nails
in the silence-prone whey
of the mind.
And it seems as if
past,
present
and future
co-exist
in a dreamlake,
synchronous,
like railroads …
from nowhere
to nowhere.
Like sweat of flint,
silence drips …
drips.