beauty, love, death, there is nothing to be generalized about these,
they are all very personal affairs. and they are inseparable from life as a soul.
all communication in which no tear flows are insubstantial.
i can listen to laughs and to tears, and i can feel the breath and
the essence of beauty, love, death.
when beauty becomes too important per se, barbarism begins with
selection, this is the decadence of aestheticism, a sometimes deadly intellectual game
as history shows.
and when self-observation is asked to bring joy to life,
the end is living in the past and a vague idea of freedom.
when there is no hope but only mere courage to cross
the borders of sadness and estrangement.
then all beauty appears constructed, far away and foreign,
what shimmers alive in the morning light is by now
like dead matter,and, mind you, i don't believe in matter,
it may look like rotting flesh brought out to attract the birds of prey,
to wear down my energy, to weigh upon my soul
like a stone.
and now i am this stone, i can be touched, smooth,
rough, cold or warm, round or with cracks and fissures and edges and scars.
but i feel not more than a stone can feel.
and still i hurt inside. i hurt, separated from my volcanic origin
i am heavy but weak, lonely among rocks and snakes and rain
and in the merciless heat of the sun.
i live in a desert. and now i am this desert.
i am a deserted place,
deprived,
but still alive another way
under the ashes of memory.
and i spread the scent of thyme, of autumn fires
and of a human who lived here.
somebody said i could leave this place
and go for a swim.
only i just don't know why.
I'd need a true call, a push, a pull,
but who can move stones and deserts?
is it love or is it pain or will it be this 'you'
who just needs to ask me, not more, not less.
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