Matchstick

A little yellow stick, the soft wood in my hand is like the voice never heard. Chatter of magpies, rush of blood in the popping athlete's vein, mother singing song to her long-sleeping child at two in the night. The world sleeps, and when the sulfur burns, like a prayer the soul burns. The supplication and the sword. Then I wonder.

About the dog's lair, about the earthworm's mansion, and about the coal mines. First rays of sun or searcher, in the hole. Like day is brought to me. Like day is carried and transported and made exclusive for me. If I will cry or I will sing, it will not matter, for my voice will never be heard: this is my freedom and this is my perch.

I will taste earth, the sweet and sticky earth, with lecherousness. Then I will know myself: my memories will come, and I will imagine where people are laughing and where there never was darkness. How the sky is blue and pure, and how I have heard that when you touch the sky, there are ripples in it, and then you kiss the shades.

I hold for too long, and my finger and thumb get burnt. I lick them and I laugh. Light is worth a thousand burnings to me, if only I had a thousand sticks. Now there is none, but there is a newcomer in the dark. The smell of my flesh is subtle but speaks an unknown language; I will know the alphabet one day.