Is Being / Language articulating through our own hearts articulating?

with ideas flying all over like kukai's magic brush with fate/faith painting upon the page is Kukai's brush Language transmitting?

was Kukai's brush made of Rose wood?

i am a body in a state of ecstasy falling overintounderthrough Railway lines back into Earth like the Rose
Through our bodies and our voices ... there is Nõ way to stop the heart from beating/breathing art.
It is in the wood of this place, in the heart of the story tree ...
the feeling of Yeats writing poetry to the ghost that is gon(n)e, into the void, to Nõ one, to the Rose.

Am i going Nõ where with this essay, this story?
Is this Nõ mystery writing for Love of Language itself,
writing to the Rose who does not answer Why?

Shall we buy aNõther round for Dionysius and õNe Guinness for Yeats taking a window seat on Nõ train?
Here i am anonymous just waiting for that Kukai guy to throw his brush and Nõ essay would write itself
through Nõ artist as conduit where i am only dreaming this Nõ essay, this mystery into Being.
Here i am Nõt waiting for the Rose to speak to me of Nõ thing knowing s/he never will speak to me at all.

Trying to articulate the heart ... in which direction, by which direction?
My story on the way to poetic philosophy?
The significance of loving the Rose ... forever undisclosed ... forever unknown?
Knowing thorns of love, knowing thorns of loving the Rose,
knowing transcendent love of the Flower who speaks to me in silence that has Nõ meaning
in a vast and timeless space as i ride Nõ Train through the Railway Station nearing Nõ home and i am still Nõ thing.

PAST . . . A tale begun in other days, When summer suns were glowing -

PRESENT . . . A simple chime, that served to time The rhythm of our rowing -

FUTURE . . . (From Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There )