And we have many words for it:
on the edge of things,
on the wrong side of fate...
But if we liked the world the way it was, we would not be the ones to change it;
and if we were satisfied with our lives the way they were, we would not try to be greater:
This uneasiness, in truth, is the first step of the awakening.
And when we are on the edge of death,
we are on the edge of rebirth.
we are the paths of destiny and we are its crossroads...
And the Universe is the tapestry
within which all these threads are woven.
is the sky crying for you?
No, you were ready to go:
I could see you these last few days
your eyes were pleading to say goodbye,
You lay there, staring into your cup but unable to drink...
And I turned to watch you follow in my steps,
seeing you struggle to stay on your feet.
You knew, of course,
that you were ready to leave.
You had accepted your fate,
I was the one who wouldn't let you go.
And now... now, that you're gone,
I try not to think of the way
you lay there without struggling,
how you fell asleep but didn't close your eyes.
I will keep in my mind
the softness of your hair,
the sound of your bell,
and that pensive face as you looked out the window.
I hope to see you some other day, some other age,
see you return as one of the song birds you were so fond of
(at least they are not held back by the windows or walls):
Free forever from this pain.
See you in a dream, and missing you always,
But our mortality will not kill us.
It will not be the end of me, nor you,
for we are more than our own lifetimes.
I care not what the gods say
of our fallen state...
We rise by our own strength,
and (even without wings)
we are our own salvation,
we are eachother's truth.
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
Beneath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed
By the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share...
And no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence
'Fools,' said I, 'you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you.'
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the signs said: 'The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls,
And whispered in the sound of silence."
(Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel)
- Current Music:Simon and Garfunkel... whatever
the trickster figure is to be the catalyst
for the awakening.
And so I find my purpose once again,
for Zekoram is a winter trickster:
as the nights grow long
and the days grow cold,
are shriveling up, going back to seed.
They were not meant to live too long,
no more than this summer was.
Here comes the end,
and the beginning
of a season...
here comes the end
of the solar eclipse
and the beginning
of the moon's.
In the meantime
the mists start to rise
in the twilight world
and soon only my own echo
will have the time to answer me.
every new beginning's
part of some other beginning's end."
I glimpse a street name
outside the car window:
Home, we're almost home now...
But instead of relief it's dread
that I find.
Back to the familiar becomes
back to routines, to dreary duties
and the lies we tell ourselves
(a little bit less a lie every time),
to family quarrels and a tired mind.
Let me return to the wilderness,
Let me stay where the rivers are untaimed,
where the air smells of pines
and cedars remember that they are trees
(not the fences around a back yard),
where the skies are not framed by buildings.
Leave me there to sit in contemplation
or to read of lives that never were.
Let me stay there and dream,
where the only tears come from
the sorrows of a name in a book.
Let me stay there
until the winds begin to howl
and the leaves on the trees turn to blood.
* * *
would that I could skip the rest
of this broken-plans-summer
and find my place again,
in the fall, in the stone steps
and the bookshelves,
in the inside jokes of clever friends.
Let others wait for the summers to come,
let others look forward to this stagnant rest.
I know my place, I know my days
and like they say...
Winter is coming
- Current Mood: exhausted
when the poet awakens
to the notion that
he is a part of the story...
but, ya, didn't have time to write it before now...)
So this is the first day
of the rest of my life.
Yet where does this new life
the next day
the next year?
Or maybe the moment
that my life becomes
what it will be until the end?
Or the moment that sets me
into motion towards it?
It is an infinity of beginnings
(eternal as the strand of hair
I twist endlessly around my fingers).
And each moment,
each new life
is but a stepping stone
to the one that must follow.
- Current Mood: pensive