“I have come from the River,” he said.

“The road you follow, you wayward, you vincible
Beasts of the market, creatures of principle
Your derivative ideas and stale-word play
Are fed with stark sentences staged on layaway
Your deluge is paragraph, drowning in monograph
The richest of soil seeded with chaff
Is desert; what is grown soon deserted
Not concerted but lonely reworded
Water is muddled for want of better letter
Undrinkable vinegar thirsting for weather
To wash clean obscene dreams
With waves are not of the hurt in me!
Let your lungs fill with the perfectly
Wrought liquid of harmony
From your throat, the words for your aching
Song of salvation written for waking
Anointed anon to bear new dawn…”

“Absalom, Kevork,” he whispered. “Absalom.”