That wrote itself, that wrote me.
In those days, I stared at words,
And the words talked back to me.
They told me how small a part
I would ever be of them,
A village that they passed through,
An inn they spent the night in.
There might be no trace of me,
None at all, endured in them.
I nodded as I spoke them,
Words that made so much of me,
Words I couldn’t live without,
Words I moved so easily.