Thursday, December 14, 2017
Why
why should i write
when all has been said,
i can just give voice
and colour to words
why talk about the clock
when it is ticking
day and night
with tick and tock
why describe kisses
turning them tasteless
or trees standing tall
to make them small
why narrate cruelty
when i cannot reach
the torturer’s soul
nor make deeds undone
why go on about death
when it is unavoidable,
why tell tales on courage
when it needs doing
why complain on fate
in place of acting
and why pray with words
what only silence can say
why dissect feeling
when it flows,
why babble on happiness
and not accept sadness
the language of love,
in passion, in joy, in pain,
must be shared in pure
heart, listening to the
wind in the valley and
on top of the mountains
in clear skies, above the sea,
we shall sound a horn
through the fog of our minds,
to be witness, to share
what is, to warn what may be,
to remember the forgotten,
this to call words to do.
words not being letters
but signs and signals,
notations of human songs,
spoken a living thread
pulsing, pervading
what is invisible,
changing in the in between.
when all has been said,
i can just give voice
and colour to words
why talk about the clock
when it is ticking
day and night
with tick and tock
why describe kisses
turning them tasteless
or trees standing tall
to make them small
why narrate cruelty
when i cannot reach
the torturer’s soul
nor make deeds undone
why go on about death
when it is unavoidable,
why tell tales on courage
when it needs doing
why complain on fate
in place of acting
and why pray with words
what only silence can say
why dissect feeling
when it flows,
why babble on happiness
and not accept sadness
the language of love,
in passion, in joy, in pain,
must be shared in pure
heart, listening to the
wind in the valley and
on top of the mountains
in clear skies, above the sea,
we shall sound a horn
through the fog of our minds,
to be witness, to share
what is, to warn what may be,
to remember the forgotten,
this to call words to do.
words not being letters
but signs and signals,
notations of human songs,
spoken a living thread
pulsing, pervading
what is invisible,
changing in the in between.
Friedrich Gulda: Mozart , Piano Concerto in D minor, K 466, comment
like burning sage smoking out demons and ghosts after all this before,including in context the last two posts, past, trouble, worry, suffering, cycles and prison time, pointless rebellion, opposition without perspective, deconstruction without seeds growing, energy wasted on cutting a way through jungles of soul and conditioning-
and when the smoke lifts only silence remains,
and then we finally can give us up , can give without questioning.
Star, Derek Walcott
If, in the light of things, you fade
real, yet wanly withdrawn
to our determined and appropriate
distance, like the moon left on
all night among the leaves, may
you invisibly delight this house;
O star, doubly compassionate, who came
too soon for twilight, too late
for dawn, may your pale flame
direct the worst in us
through chaos
with the passion of
plain day.
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