L. Costa

Sanarjabd

Nobody really knows. Though it had been sought from so many angles, manuscripts, crystal balls, and astrolabes – even those not so far from the philosopher's stone. Nobody never ever grasped or fixed it in movable typos, not even in closed deadlines or in those brushstrokes that are by nature more mysterious than the pistils of the dusk at dawn. An odd elder living in Samarkand for a week once gossiped that it had been translated into gold over the gates of Veii, though in that Etruscan language that is now dear only to nobody.

sages and fools . . .
such a long procession

Nobody knows it. This question that, as quicksilver, flows into so many shapes and forms that defies the very act of existence under the changing clouds over a mountain so nearly identical to the Mount Fuji that it has been forgotten.

know thyself
from sunrise to sunset . . .
through hieroglyphs