Text
And now, at last,
the beautiful autumn faces the children
who were the first on my mind.
The leaves, as I listened, sank into the sand:
the boy beside me who was called emissary,
the one whose nest I had fought so fiercely
to rid myself of in the Search for the Lost Word.
My own nest was the forest.
“The next morning a demon came to me,
and I found that I still had some letters,
but they were all stuck together,
and without matter,”
Ovid wrote to a friend.
