It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Now I am writing again on a column of poems. Can I write that?

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. For every layer of meaning in the stones. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.