His memories of the labyrinth go numb with sleep.
The single memory: how the calls and the confusion rose
until at last they swung him up from the earth.
And how all cleavings which have cried out always
for their bridges in his breast
slowly shut like eyelids,
and how the birds swept past like shuttles, like arrows,
and finally the last lark brushing his hand,
falling like song.
Then: the wind's labyrinth, with its blind bulls,
cacophonous lights and inclines,
with its dizzying breath which he through arduous
struggle learned how to parry,
until it rose again, his vision and his flight.
Now he is rising alone, in a sky without clouds,
in a space empty of birds in the din of the aircraft...
rising towards a clearer and clearer sun,
turning gradually cooler, turning cold,
and upwards toward the spring of his blood, soul's cataract:
a prisoner in a whistling lift,
a seabubble's journey toward the looming magnetic air:
the bursting of the foetal membrane, transparently near,
and the vortex of signs, born of the springtide, raging of azure,
crumbling walls, and drunkenly the call of the other side:
Reality fallen
Without reality born!