The books came out fertilized with words. Silk cocoons. Chapters to come out. Page by page. They danced to the rhythm of the origins. The origins unraveling. The wind time unraveling. Last time train. He sticks his tongue out mockingly in the distance. Always sowing fields of words. A dry land eventually drying. Until the leaves fall from the cobs. They drip from the stem like floating ships of air. Like long fingers of the hard grains. They will serve for the fire of silences.