STANDING
ON A HILL I can see the
world turning
Spinning me round to face the sun
Pulling me forwards while taking me
back
Into the thick of things that should need
to be silenced
Into the thick of things that in hope
went before
Into this cryptic silence, free of all censure
. . .
That falls in pieces
Is the wealth of all the parts of the
whole . . .
All gladly given away for the whole of
the whole
In tiny clipped-winged clouds the
quintessence of rags
Broken lines of brushed writing-clouds
. . . colouring . . .
Needing no edges
Bearing no relation to the lines in the
land below
Over which they flew, but when seen
together
As I now, know, they can be
Are painting the beginning of my day in
brightest sunrise!
Telling the pieces of Whole, till they are
made whole
And a new day!
Then gathering and raining . . . in the
utmost grey
To make, in these perfect examples of
gems in vapour,
Divisions and outlines to see them by!
Am I crazy, or what?
*
- From: Arkiahh Dreaming; The Ragged Writings of Everland; Volume 3
No comments:
Post a Comment