Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 02, 2004

more untitled cantos


Uprooted man, and placeless,

you've forgotten: tell the thing

the way we know it

      and not the way we speak ---

Mens hebes ad verum

per materiala surgit. Thus

it has been, and could be again:

      a mark on stone,

      a bird. As the grass blade

beneath the porch shade

pushes concrete aside.


Man like a cracked drum, we can still

play his song --- yes, his elegy.

But one can never know when

the piano lid will close for good for us,

      though the shutting noise

      is jarring and inevitable.

Man weeping on a sofa through the night

alive with some other song than his own,

A white poppy,

a tangle of live earth

on palest root.

Posted by Delire at April 2, 2004 11:05 PM
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