O word, you are my bread in my exile with the days. The letter | Thoughts Hub

O word, you are my bread in my exile with the days. The letters catch my throat, and I feel thirsty. I snatched you from the tongue of the wild animal, from the sap of thorny plants, until you scratched my heart, and your flash of glass wounded my voice. O word near my tongue, what light is this from which my darkness flees? What do I pronounce, if not what the darkness drinks, what do I desire, if not what has not died? Why do I tear with you, why do I speak of what is torn under my papers? I lived the moment when my life turned into words, into a vertical road under the moon. Let me see and hear the world stutter and get lost in the noise of my secret, let me find the right death, find my joy, bow to my phrase, this is the secret that attracts my soul, my blood, my heart and my voice to the original and not to the similar copy. O word, drink me, make me a throat the size of the universe.