The purity of senses
but impurity of feelings
arises cathartic.
Amidst the lesser activity
in which self is detachment
a sudden window through time
opens up for this fresh breeze...
Staring at me,
the hours, the days kept inside
all these months, all these years...
And there I am,
as all that nothing,
once something;
a sense of surrounding
and the sense of abandonment
of that surrounding,
for something deeper
and closer
to the knowledge
of pain
and its survival,
that new dawn
after that last curve
of that last hill,
the imaterial place,
a strong undefined memory
that knows its truth,
that knows its reasons,
and that carries on,
as beautiful as the aesthetics
which lie beyond philosophy,
beyond the shelf that is home
in its social, strained sense.
The disguise wore off those nights,
mostly nights,
in which darkness was appeased
slowly as the moon shone
higher and higher,
the bright enigma of bleeding youth,
grains of sand...
Then, I was.
Today... when am I?
Which road am I on?
Recollection of scattered pieces
failing to form a mirror -
- the only reflection here.
And so one pretends that he's digging,
and forgets that to dig
is to drop off
one's tools
and return,
and awake...
...free,
so to say.
(Although a shadow shall pass by
and something shall be lost
in translation...)