For She Speaks

Everything I have to say is already written in nature. Each word I need to write is there, somewhere written on a leaf, waiting for me to find it.

I used to dream that I would find letters of the ancient tongues, in the veins of stones, and that all I would have to do is follow the right path, and they would spell out my salvation, my escape, my redemption, my escalation, alephabetically elevating, beita betaken, a gammel across the glimmering desert and through the deltalet of daybreak, until the tavtauzeta of the further dawn, and last returning, to see the sun again, the same sun again, the same sun from above as below.