I write so that the light, at the tunnel’s end, won’t die. The loaf cheers the glory of the blood spilled around it; the stones have a savor and color; the flowers have the kiss’s weight.
I write so the friend won’t die forever; no tree bends or a bud withers; no datepalm sinks in the landfill of oblivion, no ink or rain or spring dries; no man despairs, or a lover’s prayer goes unheard. I write to tell the wind, “I’m your brother in storm, the igniter of the first spark, the keeper of thunder the guard of the trail.”