Someday, the Girl will return

Tongue in her hands—

Hands soaked in blood—

Blood dripping from her mouth drying on her clothes.

Then, eventually, her mouth will return to its origins

The merry colours of her clothes will seep back into her face

And never, not even by mistake, will she ever

Think about her hands, or her tongue

Because the Girl will think of nothing

And thus go beyond terror.

Or, you might say that even in the midst of terror,

Nothing will pulsate within her,

Nothing as such that might be throbbing with life.

Only, ever so occasionally, 

A dream will stir within her

Or the Girl will stir within a dream

On those rare days the Girl will emerge

Dragging her dirty body, cut away from the dream’s cord

Many days away from that day—

Tongue pulled out onto the hands

Many days away from that day—

The Girl will peek in(to) the dream

Into a black well

Inside which sits another blind Girl

Who blinds every pair of eyes

That meet hers…

The Girl will think—

That part which had to be blinded, is blind.

Which had to be silent, is silent.

Which had to be helpless, is indeed helpless.

Then what might she be doing alone

Sitting in that dark well?

All these thoughts would run through her head, but only in dreams; 

From the outside, she would appear to be in a cheerful mood.

Her speechless mouth primordial,

Her gaze, distant

Her colour, deep and streaking across the face.

Never will she think about her tongue,

Not even by mistake.

Not about her tongue,

Not about her hands,

Not about her lips.