Words; lost in translation some days I just want to read the words of others. Line by competent line I trace their words, their fiction that I fall into. moments in time but a bend of the arm, the soft flesh of a cheek, as my fingers pause to feel their velvet soul. sometimes their eyes hold sorrow as a lake in a thimble. as if the least bit of quivering will spill over the edge. their busy with their words; ancient text that eludes the scribes. but we find it, under the soft blue light of the dying where words spoken are but whispers of shuddering breath. and when I find that one poem, that small line, psalm or story, I return again and again, a lover revisited in the darkness of night. and as an unquenchable thirst builds in my chest, I am led, blindly in search of translation.