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safe from harm that promises to your ghosts,
a safe refuge within the depths
of someone else; warm, inviting, playful,
locks of your hair twirl around
the finger of the one who you still hold.
those playing outside so loud,
the moon and sun actual facts. but for us,
there is this imaginal land sewn,
deemed for us the place which more than is
a home we can move around us.
death and defeat and the space between stars,
dim recalling a past where mirrors
broke the light which was inside them;
and the fears moved like goblins
displaced by the lack of a face, completely blind
with what you've given away.
not quite sure how this works. in these worlds,
white tee-shirts hang on lines,
next to rocks that speak with voices,
and the moving dust gathers the wind
to play around, to look for water.
our names we call each other,
we leash the unexpectedness, we feel
silence pour into our veins, we more than remain
symbols of our cultural heritage,
and as much as we try to fight the other
the Real Other watches without reacting.
moves without knowing. the real One believes
past believing, its own process stayed.
the real truth of the words coming true,
haunting the islands in my view.
the real meaning of the words spoke out --
they ring inside the well of children's hope
where dark things rue the burning light,
where I fell inside, and a story of the town
wheeled around like bits of paper blown.
and all i can say of the world,
they walked away from--
did it matter that I knew the difference
blinded by the shapes of the sun
of the stories the different people tell;
O I know your dark clouds
blockade the patient sun, too. O i know
nothing anymore but these words:
and the reasons for silence,
and still the wonderful song of the birds,
i can hold within my arms.
a safe refuge within the depths
of someone else; warm, inviting, playful,
locks of your hair twirl around
the finger of the one who you still hold.
those playing outside so loud,
the moon and sun actual facts. but for us,
there is this imaginal land sewn,
deemed for us the place which more than is
a home we can move around us.
death and defeat and the space between stars,
dim recalling a past where mirrors
broke the light which was inside them;
and the fears moved like goblins
displaced by the lack of a face, completely blind
with what you've given away.
not quite sure how this works. in these worlds,
white tee-shirts hang on lines,
next to rocks that speak with voices,
and the moving dust gathers the wind
to play around, to look for water.
our names we call each other,
we leash the unexpectedness, we feel
silence pour into our veins, we more than remain
symbols of our cultural heritage,
and as much as we try to fight the other
the Real Other watches without reacting.
moves without knowing. the real One believes
past believing, its own process stayed.
the real truth of the words coming true,
haunting the islands in my view.
the real meaning of the words spoke out --
they ring inside the well of children's hope
where dark things rue the burning light,
where I fell inside, and a story of the town
wheeled around like bits of paper blown.
and all i can say of the world,
they walked away from--
did it matter that I knew the difference
blinded by the shapes of the sun
of the stories the different people tell;
O I know your dark clouds
blockade the patient sun, too. O i know
nothing anymore but these words:
and the reasons for silence,
and still the wonderful song of the birds,
i can hold within my arms.
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