1.
at night things
lurk from our touch
carried away by the waters of dreams
we’re transported into the distance
only they stay here in the clear
somewhere we don’t
for we, we follow the same ways
we always go, and so we only
keep on
flowing
2.
dream can’t be rehearsal
or else brother to death,
but a second life
we lead as another person
and on our way back
the ward who watches over us
from the tower of wake
has us depose
all we have gained,
so that we remain
in the little half
we are reminded of
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
OFFERING
1.
What is after all the good of loving?
I should guess it is not worth a damn.
It won’t clean the floor or get to cook for you,
you would rather not bring it to work with you.
If we want to sell it, it is pointless.
You will not get a dime.
Our serenity or a limp rhyme
miss more and nag you less.
It is useless to love who has love in us already:
it’s like adding water to the well of water.
Even more nonsense to love someone who does not love us,
it’s fighting an angel without learning to fly first.
Although we spend all of our time
worried about not getting it out of sight,
one day it leaves, without at least
worrying to warn us previously.
God deter us from loving too much,
and send us a bolt, a flood or such.
God keep it for those who lost all already,
for former hatchet men or the amnesic.
2.
that is why I gave all of me:
to wake up one day all by myself,
and track down in dust my path,
that is why I walked all of me
to empty a room till there was nothing left,
and try to fill myself with another room’s emptiness,
that is why I moved all of me
to need more than it was only needed,
without knowing of anyone who owed my due,
that is why I bequeathed all of me
to hand out more than I ever possessed
and even so keep on delivering,
that is why I gave all of me
3.
my steps are strangers that can never meet,
and how strange how my steps can’t trace back
my steps in the traveled track,
maybe it is because each road calls for
other roads, thus so many crisscross
till go folly
yet, though the way feels bumpy,
its bed is smooth with footprints of flowers,
of defunct and bruised flowers,
with petals as ajar as those in a scar,
open to the wide but focused on the ride,
because a love’s petal never goes loose
and so I never gave up looking to no avail,
since you can’t lose the way that’s only become
a part of you, and like one limb or our lymph
walks in us, until one day you can’t just tell
where the road starts in your body
and where it bids farewell
(envoi)
if the steps sunder, as strangers short of notice,
it is no wonder, since the good marks
always point to the wrong start,
and so every direction means a new inception,
but there is no harm, mistake is all it takes
to get you where you need
for how could ever be such a thing
as a love loved
for the good of no thing?
What is after all the good of loving?
I should guess it is not worth a damn.
It won’t clean the floor or get to cook for you,
you would rather not bring it to work with you.
If we want to sell it, it is pointless.
You will not get a dime.
Our serenity or a limp rhyme
miss more and nag you less.
It is useless to love who has love in us already:
it’s like adding water to the well of water.
Even more nonsense to love someone who does not love us,
it’s fighting an angel without learning to fly first.
Although we spend all of our time
worried about not getting it out of sight,
one day it leaves, without at least
worrying to warn us previously.
God deter us from loving too much,
and send us a bolt, a flood or such.
God keep it for those who lost all already,
for former hatchet men or the amnesic.
2.
that is why I gave all of me:
to wake up one day all by myself,
and track down in dust my path,
that is why I walked all of me
to empty a room till there was nothing left,
and try to fill myself with another room’s emptiness,
that is why I moved all of me
to need more than it was only needed,
without knowing of anyone who owed my due,
that is why I bequeathed all of me
to hand out more than I ever possessed
and even so keep on delivering,
that is why I gave all of me
3.
my steps are strangers that can never meet,
and how strange how my steps can’t trace back
my steps in the traveled track,
maybe it is because each road calls for
other roads, thus so many crisscross
till go folly
yet, though the way feels bumpy,
its bed is smooth with footprints of flowers,
of defunct and bruised flowers,
with petals as ajar as those in a scar,
open to the wide but focused on the ride,
because a love’s petal never goes loose
and so I never gave up looking to no avail,
since you can’t lose the way that’s only become
a part of you, and like one limb or our lymph
walks in us, until one day you can’t just tell
where the road starts in your body
and where it bids farewell
(envoi)
if the steps sunder, as strangers short of notice,
it is no wonder, since the good marks
always point to the wrong start,
and so every direction means a new inception,
but there is no harm, mistake is all it takes
to get you where you need
for how could ever be such a thing
as a love loved
for the good of no thing?
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