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The yellow
emperor strolled with the poet through his palace. Past the temple of birdsong.
Past the window where the moons are released. Moving through room after
room, they walked at a vague distance from one another, seemingly not together
at all. This was a gesture of deep respect, like the manner in which strangers
pass and leave not a trace of obligation on each other's hearts. Light steps
in bare feet on the stone floor. The emperor's yellow robe wiping the surface
of ancient mountains. The teeming veins in the rock appearing from under
his robe's hem like roads drawn across a map.
They walked slowly, speaking barely above a whisper, as that was the way
in the palace. No one stands too close to the emperor. No one speaks louder.
Turning corners along the vast corridors, the poet listened to the sibilant
percussions of wind that floated to his ear from the emeror's lips; making
understandings from half meanings half heard. Poetry. Stroking his beard
as the emperor vanished behind a doorframe. The silence ensuing. The gift
of patience. The poet found the end of his line. At the Hall of the Insect
Dead, the poet turned his head to see an endless expanse of floor on which
an infinite number of tiny stupas had been erected to house the relics of
mosquitos and dragonflies and all the rest of the ephemeral insect past.
He spoke softly of the numbers he could not count. They moved on and conversed
at five meters apart, bridging what was not heard with trust, completing
utterances with echos they let arise in their minds.
How else does one journey to where one cannot go?
There were few personal pronouns. In fact, in the palace, the grammar itself
had long developed into a special fragility. A syntax of dissolve. One spoke
of nature so as to not say one's name too often. Ambiguities were extended
as gifts beyond value. A word was placed next to a word, again and again.
Sentences never the goal.
The emperor pushed the edge of a great door, voicing his words above a whisper,
"My throne." The door swung out onto the blue-black night sky.
The emperor made a gesture with his hand which meant: "You can write
this down."
The poet knew this did not mean putting pen on paper. In this, meanings
became meaningful.
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