I kneel deep in preparation. Still untouched by the whirlwind’s force. But my swaying, still stirs up hope. As the blue moon above watches over me. All around the paper- like colorless sky, says nothing worldly. But hangs in grief with dropping heads. Winter is coming, always bitter and one-sided. And everybody is so far from knowing.
In peace, all seasons are the same. Some yearn for the tranquility of war. Heat and death a caressing touch. But I have no enemies, only my own thoughts. So, I choose long conversations with myself. And in battle, I laugh over and over again.
On the dark streets thick with gloom. The flowers trembled as I approached. I knelt down talking of extreme sorrows. I told them “A thing of mystery is this heart, even in darkness” We all agreed to focus on the heart.
You scooped them up, those coward souls. All the way into a misty gloom. Where shadows warp time, and silence is a duty. Then you forgot heaviness. Then you forgot hearts. Yet, even when the vanguard was dying – clothes and face turning a sodden green. I wondered again, what meant these sites and sounds? Those wailing souls calling for their mothers. As if there was nothing but morning and sunrise in the world.
Thinking forward for a few minutes. The sun and moon in a dark paint over. The days and nights dissappear like cuts and bruises. But nothing is healed, or forgotten. It is a strange sect. The band playing, and only the dogs listening.
This moment, the ways of the sky are taken. My mind is lost. It barely hangs on the tail of a magpie’s eye. Life springs up in every corner. All is together, yet everything wanders on.
I walk the steps and turn my head. Listen. The cicadas, sitting on the waves. Mistaking me for light. But I only walk. A fresh breeze with every step. Left foot, right foot. Making my way through the steep cliffs. To the loosened ink, coffee and books. How is your life, I asked? In unison, the cicadas replied. “We lifted it, and took it outside”
On the edge of lonely days. Your memories are all I need. I am washed away to a sundrenched pier. To sensuous plum rain on the darkest of nights. To a single-horned blue moon, reflected skin-on-skin. And a summer love, blooming as island bedfellows.
Lovely sounds the cicadas are happy. Singing like the colourful clouds. Though I don’t know for sure, when I will see you again. My love will be able to travel. To the east, to the moon. It will travel.
A Wandering Poet 