He

There is peace at the heart of the din, concord in babel.

The book conceived in tears will be born drowned.

There's someone seated by the window. A very old man. Parchment face, sparse white hairs combed in strict parallels, blind, staring eyes, black tie, black suit, rigid as a cadaver from some Sicilian catacomb. Husk of life. Without sap, without savour. Nudge him, he'll crumble.

The taste of his last mouthful lies like rust on his tongue. Harsh, and yet his tongue craves more. At rest in the glass, the wine is rusted purple. So there exists an affinity, a strong mutual pull between wine and tongue. They are complementary. They are in love. The silent tongue calls out, and the wine, though inanimate, will heed the call. Well, it's a theory. Lent support when the glass rises and, this time, not stopping short, delivers one lover to the other. They kiss. There's a little death, an insufficient bliss, but repeatable later.

Caught a fish and let it go.
Woe, woe,
Woe, woe...
Found a treasure and threw it away.
Hey, hey.