With small cuts Cro-Magnon man recorded
the moon's phases on the handles of his
tools, thinking about her as he worked.
Animals. Horizon. Face in a pan of
water. In every story I tell comes
a point where I can see no further.
I hate that point. It is why they
call storytellers blind—a taunt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Insightful and revealing. The point or the limit of our intellect bothers one and all alike. Thanks.