A Compass

To Esther Zemborain De Torres

meaning sonnet reflective

For every single thing there is a word. Day in, day out, in someone’s or something’s language is written an illimitable verbiage, which narrates its history of the world. Carthage, Rome, you, me and him, into the same herd it drives. My unfathomable life, the heartbreak that is being an enigma, puzzle, stroke of luck, the whole of Babel’s riotous discord. Behind the name lies something still which has no name. Today, I sensed its shadow quiver in that blue, keen, delicate needle probing towards some ocean’s rim. I thought it was like a clock seen in a dream, or a sleeping bird’s sudden shiver.