Our road’s no wider than yours. We often fall from the height. We’re broken too, but our lack of attention doesn’t force us to climb the rope again. Your slightest mistake can kill you. 

Our road’s no wider than yours. We often fall from the height. We’re broken too, but our lack of attention doesn’t force us to climb the rope again. 

While drinking from this cup perhaps inscribed with signs of blessing and happiness in an unknown tongue, I hold it in my hand full of its own lines I can never explain. Do these two scripts agree?

Is there an after-taste of life in these graves? And in the flowers’ mouths do bees find the hint of a word refusing speech?