Imlac, would you call me?
Could you call me Imlac?
What might you call me?
What frail, what hale and ardored
dəngəl-masfən-kokab-qasis
would come to call, muezzin-trope,
or trop for blade, the grass
as singular, or such.
Come Imlac, and project your mad astronomy down
into fate's own disc-like color to fashion, this,
our whole mind together is a telescope
whose optical impedance goes disturbed
to the tilted load of image.
Imlac, our secret book like an untorn stomach
has the stars all tatooed upon
the tender lining:
ba-za: hagar
nəguś kəbur
za:ti nəgəśt kəbərt
'əllu nagaśt kəbura:n
bə'si za=qatal-əww-o la=wald-o
wald-a nəguś
səm-a mal'ak
səm-u
səm-u la=neguś
wəsta hagar
'əm=hagar
ba=hagar
Takal-a bə'si ʕətsʼ-a
'Ayya hagar ḥanaṣ-u
nəḥna ʾi-nəkl ḥawira
There is no uncertainty regarding
the continuance of reason
if there is no certainty
that it ever began..
All auto-volitionalities
lack the sanity of silent
empty
space.
