Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
......
What happens in heaven?
Will I sit on a cloud?
Is walking or talking
Or jumping allowed?
Will I be on my own
Or with some of my friends?
Does it go on for ever
Or eventually end?
......
Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
......
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
......
Either peace or happiness,
let it enfold you
when I was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb, unsophisticated.
I had bad blood, a twisted
mind, a precarious
upbringing.
......
I cried so hard last night
That I played a song on repeat
It was one I pulled from a Spotify playlist
That I want to assume is yours
It sounds like a lullaby
And I imagined you singing it to me
Telling me it'll be alright
And running your fingers down my face
......
The river plays forte in the great symphony.
It is rushing rapids harmonizing and singing,
with the whimpering willows cry of agony.
Performing to an audience that is ever unforgiving.
......
Oh, I wish I had the philharmonic ears!
This song comes on strong with the agile
Breath of a swiftly dancing night.
Memories of it shall live forever.
And the lyrics, plain, speak of a
Silent humour hung on the ivied wall
Next to the thresholds of badinage.
Beethoven winked at the borders of restive
......
sedfgsfvs
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