Of light

In this city of light,
there is a house of darkness.
And in the house of darkness,
a roomful of light.
In the room of light,
is a dark corner
where a mourner stands, her face to the wall,
a long black veil down her back, like a timid shadow snake hanging loose,
her long black hair floating freely about,
as her head keeps turning to look at me
with the eyes of a child I remember
when I was being unborn to it,
to become the father of a son of light.

Be that a light that opens one's eyes, to make one sore and cry water in plentiful bounties,
be that a light that blinds a man's vision, and his eyes replenish the sight with a drop of  that pure delight that comes to the tired traveller at the end of a long distance call home.

Be that a light that spreads darkness like a bedsheet when the bedsitter is fallen asleep, and can't interfere with the crazy patterns one's mind is apt to map out on the empty maps one sees down there where there is no light.

Be that a light in the palm of a hand that stretches out to me with an offering that I shall find there, and return by word of mouth. Stumbling strengthens a weak tongue, as meanings are not what you say, but what you hear, and the man stumbling to fall may be closer to the truth than any one of you heavyweight shadowboxers, light or black, man or woman - child comes off better than you, in any picture you might wish to put out in the Instagram.


18 апреля 2017 г.