Читать книгу You Teach Me Light - Melaney Poli - Страница 9

In this world one collects things, you see,

and to some certain falls the thankless chore

of garnering words, stringing them one

upon another, and if you’re auspicious,

relinquishing them at a profit (it’s known

as selling one’s soul). To be sure,

for the prophets the cost will be higher,

the collection more probing and pitiless;

and depending on the lie of your fears

your words are a net, or a fire:

a snare your readers can catch you in, or your hell

of feeding an insatiable blaze.

And either way it’s a hall of mirrors,

where each beaded word tricks the light,

and no amount of spooling will spell

any certain escape from this maze.

There is a way out of course, and quite

simple: the ring of fire, the breath

of air, and the land beyond guile

and names. You can get there by prayer—

or by letting go of knowing the way,

both are the same: a kind of death

to what was before, with a smile

that knows there is nothing to say.