The word stems are clearly uncertain. Questions remain unanswered. The void offers utterance. Impenetrable silence is to be thanked, for kindest permission, for deepest gratitude. We bow to time's acrid telling muteness.
Layers are many.
We seek another's breath, mother to language, sound as resurrection. With this, we are beschmieren. That the gold eagle flies toward a reddened sky, the stem not always clear. Difficult to take any of this as causative. And needless to say, one is not alone in these matters.