things, faces passing through.
i am a post-office,
transport letters,
thorns of promisses
sometimes i need drugs
to close the gates,
for shelter,
for rest.
the u-bahn shrieks,
squeals, screeches
to a halt,
then rumbles on,
thunder underground
from far a wailing child,
a dog barking down the tunnels.
this is one stage of bardo,
transition, dissolution
the astonishment to find
silence
amidst
noise.
white paper
being filled with letters,
paint, colour, signs,
symbols, figures,
trainloads of people
in a cloud of voices
long after Babel
running
away
or
somewhere
they carry wishes
and sorrows
and i hope
they would see
and live now
because now
is tomorrow too late
and yesterday gone
their own monsters
will shake them
and
only with the fear of death
they will awake
into their lives
i open my eyes
and i see
a sword in my hand.
i will not need
a shield anymore
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