Everything good comes to a beginning,
through wrought iron gates, open
to interpretation, to the
unbridled fire of the future.
White highways, the scriptures of road:
soft marble, with unfamiliar
alphabets, the dunes
almost luminous with what's possible.
Bright skies and lexicons.
The dance of the birds like pennants
on peaks of air,
like a riot of kites.
I'll hold your scarlet robe
while the soft earth shudders.
In my hand, there's some starlight.
Please come with me.