Monday, March 6, 2017
Eivør , All Blue
If I could be brave like a tree
strong as the silver sea
If I could throw off my leaves and renew
then maybe I could be with you
If I could find my way in the night
and see beyond mountains high
take back the sun that we painted so blue
then maybe I could be with you
Oh my love what have we done
we took the heat out of the sun
and now its all blue
just like me and you
If I could move far back in time
and sweep away the tears we cried
keep all the good times the bad times undo
then maybe I could be with you
Oh my love what have we done
we took the heat out of the sun
and now its all blue
just like me and you
If I had a heart shining like gold
a pure heart that never grows cold
If I could live life the way that you do
then maybe I could be with you
Oh my love what have we done
we took the heat out of the sun
and now its all blue
just like me and you
Oh now its all blue
just like me and you
sleeplessly asking
is, i ask, is water only
a metaphor or
can i drink it
and wash?
is the body
is the body
ugly when it ages,
do wrinkles make
it dirty? or is it the
concept of dying
which colors
mind and soul?
why is death
not beauty?
the release of suffering
cannot be ugly,
frailty is not dirty.
we grew up with nappies,
and we were loved,
smelly and hairless
and like the demented,
understanding poorly
and depending on help.
did we feel ugly?
i cannot remember,
just the first bursts
of spite and joy,
and this is past.
now an old man,
must i feel dirty,
must i see me ugly
or you, judge the
other by the specific
stink of excrements,
or will my soul allow
love to rule perception
when i am naked or you?
what is this shit, the
culture of melancholy
and decay, the morbid
tasting of life ending
when it still begins
each morning, each night,
with sun and moon
and the memory of stars?
i will not give myself
into this frame, will burn
this crippled photography,
set to flames all
what speaks against
life in cold thought,
and i will give in
when fire freezes:
this is when i will
go into the stratosphere,
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust
and not one moment
not one second
before the time
will have come.
Then, only then,
let me sleep,
let me stay out
breathing with the dead.
PS:
i was interrupted. my friends are cooking.
one burst in: the potatoes are boiled! :-)
just the first bursts
of spite and joy,
and this is past.
now an old man,
must i feel dirty,
must i see me ugly
or you, judge the
other by the specific
stink of excrements,
or will my soul allow
love to rule perception
when i am naked or you?
what is this shit, the
culture of melancholy
and decay, the morbid
tasting of life ending
when it still begins
each morning, each night,
with sun and moon
and the memory of stars?
i will not give myself
into this frame, will burn
this crippled photography,
set to flames all
what speaks against
life in cold thought,
and i will give in
when fire freezes:
this is when i will
go into the stratosphere,
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust
and not one moment
not one second
before the time
will have come.
Then, only then,
let me sleep,
let me stay out
breathing with the dead.
PS:
i was interrupted. my friends are cooking.
one burst in: the potatoes are boiled! :-)
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