थे सुन एक्सिस्ट इन ITSELF

THE SUN EXIST IN ITSELF


I take up my subject and let it be--, about religion, and they say, is he capable?
Then my mouth opens up awareness, cursing backwards to a time lost in mystery,
a time without parallels, invoking the licence to dream!

Peering down---down---down, I see people with layers, free-verse eyes in their faces
and I feel so lonely, I cannot pray.
Praying like prayer is a demand for pity in the power of desperation.
Like giving death-waters to death.

Religions like individuals wreck from within and some live lives like mayflies.
I can see their ending in ice but not soon enough as I endure it.
How I hate ice: My body frozen!

I want you to look into this horror---That you are seeing now, without seeing it
or knowing it and if I could, I would shed tears and consider this wish as an act.

This wish would become a miracle and you are as great as any miracle
that you can think of because you speak with your own life.
Speaking directly into your senses, speaking things not cast in words because
you do not need words.

And if I choose good does that make you bad and if you choose bad-
Does that make me good?
Must we always judge: Must we always seek forgiveness?
The sun exists in itself!

When you behold a rainbow what colour do you like most?
Do you think all the other colours would die for want of the colour that you have chosen?
dying like when a thing vanishes and leaves no shadows.

But I can see their shadows and I can see them walking silently and I can feel----
The sour colours of their fears driving inside me like hungry pains, like minutiae of an angry humanity.
Hungry for lost infinity!

But we still carry the detritus with us because we did not separate, scatter out at night, this night-
Or another; Time did not stop for us.
We had the choice everyone has:
To die now or to die later---.

Now live where the fear of being--- and the love of being resides in rooms next to each other.
Now live where the courage of love--- and the faith in life resides in a time that changes the past.
Now live for the quality of activity.

For you are a seed blown in yesterday’s winds and you would be tomorrow’s plume tree.
Where the nightingale nestles its cares, its feathers, its eggs.

And I feel the satellites of my life-Instruments which plays music;
warming, cooling, addressing. My fears, my angers, my memories.
Memories of myself uncovering the holy city that I see in distances.
So beautiful in the morning light!

And I was like that city once but it was in another life.
In another lifetime---A lifetime which does not have ties with time.
A lifetime that dissolves with contact.