What echo says in his revert?
It says, I have no dwelling; not at furrowed paths or nooks or crooks, not at mountain peaks or in shadow vales, not at bottoms of pets, not in mouse-holes, or in cloaks of spheres.
Echo says, long is my journey; like Arab nomads striding between two Hells. Here, since question had been crucified by certitude, I move and move around, without a face, without a cloth, without wings. My letter is a fake spear, my moan a neck-less roundelay, all words are but stones, just sly winds on the vain trees.
From unseen galaxies I return back to a singer throat, in the form of ash chips and vocal bits.
I have, from the start, no shapes, no colors or tastes. My smell is the impossible, myself the eternal vanity, for I’ve never been and will never be what it seems.
I am the echoed echo. My walls are waxed muddy ears, my ceiling the edge at which I fall backwards, my air is shivers of a lost leaf in thickets, my fire the broken light in waters, my water the explosion of slight fogs into tiny drops of dews.
Echo says when reverts: I am a cameleer’s song without strings, I am the catching of winds without hands, my silence is future, my tomorrow is hush, my garden a wasteland, my mirror caved, my fountain is the fall of hoax showers onto damp seas.
My bell, says echo, is remnants of a ring, my minaret a thin long thread stretching from Possible to Impossible, and I am the one which has never been, and will never be, but in other absentees