Skidding and limping among words, or borne along through music, there comes some kind of knowledge fed on our misunderstandings. A knowledge far more learned than any other. Leading towards some wisdom which would have gone through what has been given up. Both apparitions and disappearances, the very same lights twinkle within bot life and language. It too does acknowledge its mortality.
Poetry promises nothing.
The world is in no way better after. But it reminds us herein insistently that precarious beings endure, demand and suffer from several thirsts. No hope but a handling. No hope, but an accusation, a claim. A complaint resting within language.