Growing older I descended November.
The asymptotic cycle of the year
plummets to now. In crystal reveries
I pass beneath a fixed white line of trees
where dry leaves lie for footsteps to dismember.
They crackle with a muted sound like fear.
I ask cold air, „What is the word that frees?“
The wind says, „Change,“
and the white sun, „Remember.
Samuel R. Delany – Babel-17