I hug the blade of time, My head a flaming tower What is this blood rooted in the sand And this dwindling within? Flames of the present, What have we got to say? My soul has forgotten the object Of its passion, Forgotten its legacy hidden At the heart of images No longer remembers the story told By the rain Nor that of the trees inscribed in their ink. ...What is it that separates me from myself? Could I be more than one? Could my story be my downfall And my promised land my pyre? Could I be several? One questions the other: who are you, whence do you come? Could it be madness? So teach me, madness, be my guide