When you are early it is natural to hesitate.
I remember, looking, again, at the sky,
and finding only its death. The dead are a guide.
Because, the people, when I ask them, they stay silent.
They are silent by their own choosing, their fists boiling
with air. That is what they tell me, but I hesitate to listen.
Deep inside, not within me, not within you, but inside,
I think there is something. It is difficult to glimpse,
like a flower in a vase. It often pauses, watching
the surface’s empty fabric. But that fabric still holds
something. When I ask the people, they wonder what
I am boiling with. There is no road here, only a few
stragglers too proud to wander. They have agreed
that if the stone does not move, they will become the stone.
These are the curtains behind which stands nothing.
These are the lights burning my nothing. I am uselessly jittering
like sparkling water. Jumping from: to: nothing,
again, deep inside the people’s throats. Falling
from the ground due to rushing and twisting steps.
The same ones twisting into the sky’s death,
coloring the sky black, mute, not nothing,
but the presence of serenity. There is,
within its valley: peace, chaos, shadows.
But am I am still anxious, still self-stirred
with boiling. Still unaware, perhaps willingly,
of sprouting excessive wonder. Unaware
of the spilled ink spoiling my fabric.
The people, they shall not speak. Expecting them
to speak is death. One of them said: Please, what
are you looking for here? I do not have it. Said
there is a stone worth watching. After living a life,
you may write a ten-line poem, and then live. You,
What are you doing? Listen to me when I listen to me.
I am a guide. Do I not fathom
that the dead cannot speak? Do you –
do you not fathom what you have to do?
See – from: to: here: to wander, profusely
sitting, cutting my legs shall they run.
I want to walk and glance lamp posts. To listen
to the breaking of a biscuit within a cup of tea,
watching it, behind the glass, slowly descend
to the bottom, and stay there. To circle previous circles,
forgetting and remembering, observing the slow
melodies guiding, with soft hands, the eternal
search of finding forever. To look at the changing sky,
until it becomes a home, reading its warm pages,
cleaning its carpets, until there is more to see,
more to glimpse at the tearing seams.
Give me a chair. Let me sit.
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