Words For New Eyes

I want to peer through tomorrow’s eyes. Not a thing already old, not a yesterday word only temporarily paroled from a moribund dictionary. These words newly dead now for millenniums. Words old enough to have echoed from Eve as she howled from her guttural heart to a mute moon. The newborn always come in the night always in-between the past and future. I want to be the parent of that birth, not a distant and feeble uncle already replicating an old understanding, not a gummer or mummer. I want words born in a universal forge, their fire burning bright still. Not any part of an effete scribbling far removed from an Ur meaning, its archetypal images already diluted in ages of misreading and misdirection. The etymological root of everything is just the one word for everything. Instead I only have these words seeking to be new while still wearing old, borrowed clothes. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night speaking in tongues; a language so luminous that star travelers from the distant future could converse with me from any compass point of my mind. I want new eyes to drill down to the pictographic roots of every linked letter and script. Words then would be individual revelations, direct arrows from a new bow, each a poem in itself.