If you wrote me -- a poem -- I would be filled with words.
Mist and fog shroud outWhen man was given dominion over things he was given naming rights. Things became what he said they were. This worked for a long time. We name it, we own it.
the dust of the world.
Mountain and stream embellish
the place where I live.
At a time like this,
should I turn to scribbling poems,
the breeze and moon would surely
look down on me with scorn.
- Tami No Kurohito
Lately though, names fail.
Hardly anything is what we say it to be. Why is that?
I'll tell you why: It's because the world is made of words, and the world is disappearing. Less to say about less and less.
Soon we'll have no names.
We'll probably turn out to be answers to unasked questions. We'll be silent gazes with nothing to answer to.
Do you love God? As yourself?