The wind

It’s the wind hushing over the woods that would still ring a minute before they fall

To the very end a voice trembles as if leaves were to mould her a statue in the honor of

Over time the sequence of words altogether do celebrate a triumph, so phonetically called

The letters on the stairs falling from a luggage so much disturbed surrealistically react

The world in a text that so much changes with every column, typing is per se the most

Close your eyes over the text that you read as if a cover would turn asleep all the words

That have lit a light inside the heart of darkness and you will

Yes, it’s the wind.

Photo: Léon furniture @James Joyce Centre, Dublin