WITHOUT AMPLIFICATION
Like the monasteries of old that
just fell to oblivion, that's how my
heart left the town that I lived in.
Not once, not twice, and not three
times either. Every move was a
feint, a sidestep from that same
oblivion of old.
-
The Scriptorium goes empty, and
there are no longer any monks to
write. The wine-fields are barren
and burned or encroached. All
that are left are the stories and
myths : Anselm. Benedict. and
Bernard.
-
My bones are brittle from a lack
of sustenance. I live on like some
fiery hack who won't shut up.
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