Sanskrit

Awaken them; they are knobs of sound that seem to melt and crumple up like some jellyfish of tropical seas, torn from sleep with a hand lined by prophecies. Listen hard; their male, gaunt world sprawls the page like rows of tree trunks reeking in the smoke of ages, the branches glazed and dead as though longing to make up with the sky, but having lost touch with themselves were unable to find themselves, hold meaning. And yet, down the steps into the water at Varanasi, where the lifeless bodies seem to grow human, the shaggy heads of word-buds move back and forth between the harsh castanets of the rain and the noiseless feathers of summer - aware that their syllables' overwhelming silence would not escape the hearers now, and which must remain that mysterious divine path guarded by drifts of queer, quivering banyans: a language of clogs over cobbles, casting its uncertain spell, trembling sadly into mist.