You can imagine there is a word for everything somewhere,
in some forgotten language: a stick longer than four meters,
a cave with two entrances, a round bowl made of yellow clay.
And if those words should die, it is certainly because
we no longer need them, because those things no longer matter,
because we have moved on.
And yet so often there is a profound temptation, a taste on the lips
as if to say, there is a word for this, this solitude
this long hour of regret
And then, all at once, it disppears:
a flash of color on a dark road
the remnants of a dream