Amongst cherished fields- the Children played and
experimented with the many mystic ways,
learning from their Mother how to communicate;
they made sacred concepts out of all that they’d named.
Cautious of the Word in their subjugation of Outer Space

They empathetically constructed figmented meta-selves to relate
Telling tales of the journey without beginning or end.
The conjugated folk then saw horizons start to rise that’d surely do them in.

How is a soul? To cope with a language complex?
Why is a soul?

A tool, a triumph, a trap- a surface on which a story was set
in motion, where the ocean, “unsure, slowly, without impatience,”
sculpted shards of sea glass. And as mirrors the people reflected
upon the unfolding disaster.
Terrified and confused they forsook their own consecrated fields
and Rules, of which they’d spoken, to return a gift of which they knew they could never control.

So with haste the Children of the Sea set silence to patterns unpredictably
rising, before the tongue of the tide would finally return them. A sacrifice
whatelse to prevent the precession of sequenced seasons.
Dancing silent, smiling beneath the crystallized moonrise,
they wept and laughed, with Grace for the unspoken One.
The tongue buried far from the shoreline on a hill beneath a tree seldom seen.
Remnant relic dialect, analogic cybernetic component
posing insoluble problems and pragmatic yet preverbal
syntactic relationships. Whispered gestures and autoiconic messages
rending obsolete the cursed linguistic patterns of the past.

Now we speak without speaking.