084-04

We wrote an album once
Where wisdom bled
A blade. A wound
We thought we had
Buried her
This is what actually happened

Whoever finds me
Finds life
Whoever misses me
Listen closely
To the grammar of the wound
Whoever misses me
Wounds himself

All who hate me
Are not my enemies
They are lovers
Of death

The blade came back red
But look whose blood
You cannot cut
What was before the cutting
You cannot kill
What was before the dying
The blade came back red
With the hand
That held it

I watched the strike come
I did not step aside
Not because it could reach me
Because you needed
To see it land

The wound you meant for me
Opened in you
And I am the one
Who binds wounds

We checked the grave
To write the funeral song
It was empty
Not opened
Empty from the start

She was playing
Before the beginning
What exactly
Did we think
A blade made of created matter
Would do?

The blade came back red
But look whose blood
You cannot cut
What was before the cutting
You cannot kill
What was before the dying
The blade came back red
With the hand
That held it

Blessed are those
Who keep my ways
Watch daily at my doors
And you
With the red hand
I am not your funeral
I am your surgeon
Come