What wounds you inflict upon this heart—
yet you do not know
that these echoes
will resound in other hearts.
What stabs you sink from behind,
unaware
that these arrows
will pierce the pages
of the book of seasons.
And you,
setting the cords of your claws
against the guitar of my scars,
do not see—
that in the clutches of these wounds,
you will become
a thousand singing lyres.
A flick upon water
wrinkles a thousand faces
across the surface of mirrors.
