And the ancients saw the sky as it was in the before, empty and spotless. On the origins it was lightning in the lake and nothing after that. Look at them while they’re writhing in the soil, nameless, nameless, look at them. In that empty clearing, at the beginning of things, a place defined by flat stones animals don’t overstep, circled fronds all around, where nobody can cross the stones. Look at the nameless, look at them in the centre of the circle, nameless, nameless, look at them. On the origins it was the thunder, on autumn when electricity get back to the soil, we celebrate the ancient ritual. My roots may break the stone, and nothing after that, broken stone all around. And the fire raises from straight poles, and the fire burns, and the fire burns, and the fire raises from the straight poles to the sky and as it was in the before, spotless, it’s full of flashes. I feel the rain. Look at them, in the soil, nameless, nameless, look at them.
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