Where to start?
Top left for European texts,
Elsewhere for East of Eden, and other spots
No longer on the map but still dirt-deep
And blood-bearing, voices stilled,
Perhaps pens' and fingertips' marks long lost;
But the breath that carried, it's still here,
Echoes so faint they can never be heard
Until an inexplicable gust from new lungs
Perhaps not even aware of where,
Top left or elsewhere, the words we utter
Begin.