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Posts Tagged ‘exile.’

I DREAM THE DISEASE OF INSISTENT TRUTH

We have already lost the world

We have already lost the world.

But we go to a world where it still is.

.

Filling the bright circle

With a cadence of whispered names.

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It is not this.

It is not this,

Where we step through to brightness.

Going nowhere, we turn,

Become pillars of silence

Against the metred songs of a warrior god,

Sung in a warrior’s language you hardly even know,

Built for grey walls and bitter days.

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A circle of leaves

In a sacred number

To build a door in air.

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The knots are tied and untied

To measure the moon’s dance,

The stones moved round the circle.

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The one who was lost

Is a clue to the thing

That can never be found by looking.

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All our friends who are not with us are dead.

They are remembering other roads

Beyond the shadows of trees and the towering fountains.

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We dance with mathematical precision,

A syncopated falling.

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Small white flowers shall puddle

In her footsteps

Though the bones of the snow

Spell cold on the mountains.

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We cannot tell if your bleak holiness

Shall heal yet, or simply dissolve our duties

To leave us standing mute and shelterless.

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We fall into the roaring gorges,

The broken roaring overhung,

The dark, weeping trees.

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It is a battle whose sides

We once understood.

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Through a silent circle of leaves,

Holy in number,

We shall step and take new forms

That wait for us

Winged or furred or fluttering,

Whispered or yearning

We shall slide between

The rocks of certain truth.

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Stones will shatter for our gentleness,

Worlds cave in and crystals crack,

The dark shall fill with pulsing light.

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The impossible sky

The impossible sky

We will dance within.

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A CERTAIN BLEAK BEAUTY

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1
Endless rains
I wake early before dawn.
The dreams I recall
Are of loss and confusion.

2
The bonfires burn blue and bitter.
The mantra of compassion rings hollow
When all harvests have failed.

3
News from home is slow to arrive:
The roads often impassable,
Slow and winding
Through the hills.

4
My bones are weary.
I turn restless, from side to side.
The flies circling the room
Slower and slower each day
Fail to find the open window.

5
Though we are far
from the borderlands
Everyone fears invasion.

6
A song from the past
I cannot quite remember,
Of the moon and a girl
And a river.

7
Wind from the mountains
Tastes of snow.
The grasses are lank
and yellowing.

8
There is a certain bleak beauty
In the dark night,
Filled only
with the echoing cries of foxes.

9
News from the capital
Is dreary and unconvincing:
Familiar, lazy formulas.
The treasuries are empty,
The halls smell stale of old food.

10
Only this small thin cat is content
Paws flicking in sleep,
Curled up warm.

A collection of fleeting images, reflecting the present, but echoing the laments of those border guards of Ancient China

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