Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading br I want you to listen: to this frail br Voice like that of letters eaten by grass. br br Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee br Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names. br It flits between two sprays of leaves, br Carrying the sound of branches that are real br To those that filigree the still unseen. br br Then know an even fainter sound, and let it be br The endless murmuring of all our shades. br Their whisper rises from beneath the stones br To fuse into a single heat with that blind br Light you are as yet, who can still gaze. br br May your listening be good! Silence br Is a threshold where a twig breaks in your hand, br Imperceptibly, as you attempt to disengage br A name upon a stone: br br And so our absent names untangle your alarms. br And for you who move away, pensively, br Here becomes there without ceasing to be.