nobody will answer for your love
don’t be caught broken
wailing
staring into
the gaping antidawn of
unhallowed abyss and temple gate
through which you can never pass,
but drawn down into obeisance,
night after night,
milling seed in your mother’s
village by the secret river,
taking the milled seed, leaving
it at the gate of that strange
land, hoping from the spleen
to appease spirits that have cast a net
over your dreams
drawing up living wealth
of oceanic time
wailing’s
I have become
a siren
beneath the night
of stars,
and the oceanic,
gazing eyes ’
under my sea ’
are drawing me
with my gaze
into that secret place
Sing your siren song
I gently tap
Against your palm
The nightische spirit sings
In a grackle trill the song
Of the dead and of the living
She sings the spirit
Of the grackle and the killdeer
And Junco
A soft-wrought voice of a
mourning bird
Somewhere in the deep-set land
A sparrow pierces the souls of trees
For miles all the trees moved to pity
And silence
You may well think I am crazy;
But I am not a dreamer;
I have eyed the cities of yore
And I know what I see;
Yet as the nightife is not
A dreamer, I have not seen the things of yore;
There it is.
That stillness.
I have been reading a book by GK Chesterton, “Pilgrimage to Arrakis” (1931)
and I found this interesting passage
“Archeology has not yet succeeded in the most remarkable achievement
which has yet been brought to light,
namely the discovery of the real life
of Arrakis. The ancient city, still a virgin, remains a mystery.
I am called home. The ghost-of-Arrakis has haunted me from the start;
I have been waiting for the day when it would take me in hand.”
“No, no, no, I am still a child, and I am afraid. T
his world which is passing away is in a hurry to be dead
and in a hurry to be not dead. Its in a hurry to burn
and in a hurry to rise again. This type of thing occurs only
once in a kalpa. Savor the flavor.”
The End.
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