Nothing is always growing; that, too, is a growing (agrowing).
Besides yourself.
My drift in the world, my drift.
All the deaths carried forward in the human species, all the memories of other lives.
Continental drift, fault lines, the distances between us grow. And still, after all these years we think there was a time-the origin maybe-when there was a kind of oneness.
There are times to sit still. In the early morning there are no sounds of human beings to be heard, just birds chirping, the gentle breeze rustling in the highest leaves in the trees that makes you think of the falling light in Eastern windows, or the light glinting off high windows in the north, arches over free space. A squirrel's small and hurried steps, the sun's warmth surrounding us, taking away our distinctiveness; larger steps (mine), a few random and stray thoughts..is this the world, then? To what extent is the world still part of the universe, its rhythms, the rich simplicity of the play of elements?
And now it is so quiet here. I searched all that silence, a desert in a desert, a wavy line made on rock, marking the the precise moment of the disappearance of the sea. Roses and grass grow without being looked upon.
'What will become of me,
the cornerstones of my heart bring about nothing'
Do you, here, by chance follow my absence.
Today?
'The sun shall cover us
the sun in our eyes for ever covered
with black crows'
The old sun on our backs, deep in our faces, heavy on our hands. Take a step out of it and I drift, drift like the wind...
(lines by Ingrid Jonker)
Besides yourself.
My drift in the world, my drift.
All the deaths carried forward in the human species, all the memories of other lives.
Continental drift, fault lines, the distances between us grow. And still, after all these years we think there was a time-the origin maybe-when there was a kind of oneness.
There are times to sit still. In the early morning there are no sounds of human beings to be heard, just birds chirping, the gentle breeze rustling in the highest leaves in the trees that makes you think of the falling light in Eastern windows, or the light glinting off high windows in the north, arches over free space. A squirrel's small and hurried steps, the sun's warmth surrounding us, taking away our distinctiveness; larger steps (mine), a few random and stray thoughts..is this the world, then? To what extent is the world still part of the universe, its rhythms, the rich simplicity of the play of elements?
And now it is so quiet here. I searched all that silence, a desert in a desert, a wavy line made on rock, marking the the precise moment of the disappearance of the sea. Roses and grass grow without being looked upon.
'What will become of me,
the cornerstones of my heart bring about nothing'
Do you, here, by chance follow my absence.
Today?
'The sun shall cover us
the sun in our eyes for ever covered
with black crows'
The old sun on our backs, deep in our faces, heavy on our hands. Take a step out of it and I drift, drift like the wind...
(lines by Ingrid Jonker)
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