It’s as if a book written in an ancient language
suddenly reveals part of itself to me; as if,
suddenly I understand all the verbs,
or all the prepositions.
It’s as if, what before, I had only understood
in the illustrations of fire hydrants, trees and
lampposts,
could now be seen
all over the white page.
And I am led by the ancient bearded sage,
who suddenly is infinitely wiser and more intelligent
than I had ever imagined he could be.
He leads me through the subtle character turns
and plot twists of his daily epic.
And what is even more amazing
is to see him write over the work of his
predecessors,
not so much to correct their clumsy tropes,
as to add his interpretation of the scene, to mix
his vision to the countless visions of those
who stopped at this spot before him.
It’s dark,
We’re alone and off the beaten track,
but I know, that, try as I may,
my imitation of this sophisticated art
will not rate so much as a sniff,
even, or especially, when I try
to form the letters of my name in the snow.
