Friday, January 31, 2014

Gnosior / Late XXI century poetry: Antoniox Delaveki. “On Numbers”


Could all this well-being and apparent happiness
that is thrown upon us,
the war we wage on our great enemy,
the unspeakable darkness,
could it all be just the ill-considered restraint
of an anguished soul?
All this search for clarity, for order, what does it mean?
Where did it come from?
Is it just a refuge, this sea of little truths,
away from the one lasting, great,
unavoidable answer?
You see the irony?
We set ourselves to dissect the Truth, to truly understand it.
And the poor thing - it died, long ago,
but we're still busily working,
happily filling our minds with notions about it,
pretending not to see it,
smell it.

The simple path of many steps - sprinkled,
thoughtfully paced through life's course,
is not straight.
It only seems that way to a mind unprepared to dismantle
the hidden obstacles, since it is easier to go around,
to follow the leading rule that does.
That seems to know better.
Teaching us that the world is beyond doubt cowardly insane
to follow random coincidences, whose beauty we made up.
But it is not the world. It 's us. Madly pursuing the madness.
For what is sensed can be thought of in many ways.
Picking one or the other?
Pick them all. Pick none.
The simple path of many steps starts with one. It starts with none.
It is all ever was.
And we are equally further away from the last step we took,
from the one yet to take.
From some - from moons ago, and a few others ahead
by years to come.
But not from any others.

And this - is true for every step accounted for.
those unaccounted just came through.
All, to find their peers,
uncertain neighbors in a space we fail to see.
For we only see straight.
Where is it? The true stone, whose glitter is lost to the eye
remains adrift,
in the sea of dust of time.
This – these words - make no sense.
[...  short dialog between two brothers reading this, but nothing too meaningful  ...]


But then they do.
For first and last do not exist.
When the time fails: then we 're free.
For a moment that never stops.
Yes, we're made of things that pass. Transform. A word for death.
Same as is born.
We're made of strength that lasts only as much as we can foster
it.
A strength misplaced.
Thinking its aim is just to burn. And burn we do.
In a great, great bonfire.