The wind lifted me high, and we flowed over the mountain. The rain drew me down, into the bowels of earth. I rose again into trees. The heat brought my ghost from out the soil. The cold stilled the fire for her, which I could not extinguish.

The wreckage that remained was my epitaph; its shapes told all the stories. But the spectators could not read it, for they only knew the languages of letters, the languages of words and were dumb before the splendors of silence. They were deaf before the endless song of that which doesn’t move.