Blue gardens the human soul with patience and love , tends to the rimples on swept away branches and touches tiny beetles good-night. Blue embraces a myriad stars , forming a tapestry of little, gleaming lights. Blue wraps tenfold around this world, holding us in worn palms so that we may lay our cheeks gently on one of its many creases and be at peace. Blue sits next to me and with a thin smile and not a word spoken , I know everything is alright.
Archiv des Monats: September 2019
little rest
There are those before me and those after me. I merely repeat the words of Borges and surely of many others: I am no one. Maybe to a few – for a brief time – I am some body. But where I am now, laying on my back on a giant boulder, I do not know who I am. In the eyes of an other I may be a son or a brother
, a father or a mother, a poet or a song
, a dutiful citizen or, alas, a similar fading label. But where I am now, I am nothing. This human form – if I am completely still in mind and body – could as well not be here. Just an added breath to the passing wind. I am equally significant and insignificant as the rock cradling me. A silent memorandum of painted granite. The question of where I am is inessential. Ask instead: who am I?