He who is starving, swallows his own words. He who bites the dust, spits out his words with silicate and roots. Beyond the plains language evaporates. For ages it used to be mist and black smoke. Or on the hilltop the luring fire.
Language smells, language feeds, language soothes.
At night Krabat crawls out of thin, hot mush. No creature observes him. Nobody calls his name. The fires have been put out in moonlight. The weasel whispers like Krabat.