Sibyl
Your whole age sits betwen what you hear
and what you write
When you think you'e getting younger
it's the voice coming closer
but only to you
so much of your words
is the words
once they've come out of the ground
and you've written them down
on petals
if it's spring
the same wind that tells you everything at once
unsititches your memory
you try to write faster than the thread is pulled
you write straight onto the air
if its summer
with your empty needle
straight onto a face if there's light enough
straight onto hands
if it's autumn
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