The Knife and the Pen

You ask me how can this be
My love
Have you forgotten?
You are not Gods,
And this is not Magic

But Words are more than Things
And the universe delights itself in surprises.

Let me always be surprising you.

You write the Page while looking through
The window to a new Age
I write within the Page looking back through.

Yes! There! A ship embracing stone!
That is the way I write.
Well, perhaps, not quite that way,
But see! You can stretch wings
Further than you think.

The tree roots deep
And there is such a place
Where the tree is the world,
And the tree is not the world.

He did not see the pen I wield like a knife
Master of Signs, he thinks himself,
But he did not recognize my sign:
You think you own us?
You think you hold us?
Here! I throw my dagger in your face!
Here! This is the power of my people!
Here! Do you not know whose hand holds the hilt?
I can make worlds you cannot dream of, old man
And you dare to tell my people the sign is your design?
You who said I was only a figment of your pen,
Now claim one of mine?
Who is the teacher, who the student now?

I will dream.

Atrus, my love, if not for you,
I think I might wish to be dangerous.

Instead, let me spin you worlds
To make you wonder
And thus we will talk,
Exchanging Age with Age
and Word for Word,
and Dream for Dream.

The falling water:
Is it at the top or at the bottom
Of its plunge that you see it?
Yes, both.

To Arianna:

Be bold, be not fearful.
You have the pen's power.