By Martin Falatic
Revised 1997-01-04, 2010-08-04
I walk towards the cloudy horizon
Looking out into the distant, brooding sky.
A season twisted as surely as my heart, lost in everlasting silence.
Unable to express…
– Stop! –
Not in words spoken is this transcribed
It cannot be, for some magic, some essence of truth or sad comedy is somehow lost in the speaking of one’s soul.
I can only write, as tears linger behind my eyes.
(For they, too, are also bound in silence.)
– – – – –
The Wind blows softly, warm across my body in this false spring
Monuments of stone and mortar and steel clash against the landscape
Frozen in battle against Nature herself,
A wasteland of winter for a moment fooled by a warm breeze.
I walk not into the noontime sun, but into the cloudy afternoon,
For the sun masks the depth of one’s soul, and darkness only hides it,
While the filtered, cloudy, mood-filled skies of a False Spring show hidden truths about ourselves.
– – – – –
I find myself lost in time, in place, as shorn of refuge as the forgetful squirrels that wander by me.
For as I see the dilemmas, I find no solace in the answers that do not wish to be heard.
A peculiar feeling comes across me, as I watch the clouds drift quickly by.
A sense of urgency, mixed thoroughly with a sense of lost direction, lost opportunity (lost destiny?)
Tacit surrender to a world that is as lost as I am,
Which drinks the sweet nectar of ambivalence,
And finds solace in the forgetfulness that drives me mad.