These are my words: they are the framing timbers
for ideas. It is ideas which destroy worlds.
See: I have pared the rough edges from an experience
and placed its tapestry, its copperplate,
its half convincing fiction before you.
It is a beautiful thing: dig, you may find
some Truth in it. But the shape
is unnatural, it is words only, and the world’s greatness
will not fit within them however well
they are shaped. All that will fit is
ideas, stacking pleasingly upon each other until
they make a great tower, whose shadow is the shape
of a mass grave, a burning forest, the death
of the seas. The day will come again when we will set it
aflame and dance howling around it,
released from words for a short time,
but long enough.