Ah, the soul of crow returns, southern black, the centre of things. As in a medieval story, or Romance, once you cross the bridge the world behind you collapses. Why, then, should I talk of this blue illumination, "I"? It is the bridge that lives for the world, and the world that lives for the bridge, depending how you look at it. A bit of Eastern wisdom for you. Sweet crow, why is your shadow on my heart?
'...
madly in love
with fragments of the bright words innocently spoken
by the people with beautiful cheeks,
who burn the red flowers of Oriental poppies...
Ah must I make up for myself
what I am in love with?
...'
---Kenji.
You, a thousand year old shadow of myself. From the north, where time is dark, a cold breeze over the pond brings glints of sunlight to the surface, ruffles a young girl's hair, brings tears to the corners of an old man's eyes. What some seek in religion you find in a particular face. It has nearly disappeared, like the past. Small, as Blake said; like a fleck of dust in an old man's eye, or a loose strand of hair, or the flickering of a single light on a dark pond. As long as the world exists, everything is a bridge to something else.
The seasons pass, and sadness makes you less lucid. There is an image of you somewhere, your thinner face, more full of wonder. It makes you blush to think about it. Rock, star, light, atom. No, that's not the one. There is an image of you somewhere. It makes you blush to think about it. Elemental, naked.
'...
madly in love
with fragments of the bright words innocently spoken
by the people with beautiful cheeks,
who burn the red flowers of Oriental poppies...
Ah must I make up for myself
what I am in love with?
...'
---Kenji.
You, a thousand year old shadow of myself. From the north, where time is dark, a cold breeze over the pond brings glints of sunlight to the surface, ruffles a young girl's hair, brings tears to the corners of an old man's eyes. What some seek in religion you find in a particular face. It has nearly disappeared, like the past. Small, as Blake said; like a fleck of dust in an old man's eye, or a loose strand of hair, or the flickering of a single light on a dark pond. As long as the world exists, everything is a bridge to something else.
The seasons pass, and sadness makes you less lucid. There is an image of you somewhere, your thinner face, more full of wonder. It makes you blush to think about it. Rock, star, light, atom. No, that's not the one. There is an image of you somewhere. It makes you blush to think about it. Elemental, naked.
2 comments:
is this old man with tears in his eyes you, YOU, my oldest friend? :-P
er..no..I am not the crow or the old man, just as you are not the young girl..as for "people with beautiful cheeks"..well, that is up for grabs!
;-)
K.
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