illustration pending (or how sunshine and too many blossoms can remind of Avallon)

aloofly, the chestnuts

shower the senseless asphalt

with fragments of pink and off-white.

the sun turns green all over

the birch-besieged streetlets,

and the younger lovers

hide not their excitement,

just like the starlings,

desperately nesting, in

defiance and in glorification

of all that shines, sings, transcends

the frozen drifts of before.

apple-trees emit fragrances,

burning exceptional in the morning,

dazzling every breathing moment

with a presence of the land

ever in spring-time, ever to the West.

burning photos

a flick, and another memory lights up, and
is elevated in smoke;

was it necessary, upon a second thought,
was that moment a pearl beyond comparison?

ordinary moments, strung on a fishing-wire,
like so many glass beads, fun to behold,
fun to make patterns, and so
ethnic, no high art would ever confess being near;

all that past mingles with embers
just now, and for ever, all towards

that one truth that remains.

and again, like clockwork (contains a fragment of a swearword)

my brother is scared my father might be heading for there.
fear makes my brother incomprehensible.

i am not afraid of my father’s passing. knowing he kind of welcomes it, in his own way.

i am afraid of not doing the right things.

if i do my duty, my family will ostracise me.
if i do not, i will not be able to live with myself, and the spirits of the dead.

and i lack information, to make decisions. any decisions, any at all.

sometimes being the big sibling really **cks.

and i mean it.

a contemplation of the continuity of life in the light of certain strategy games

maybe- and maybe again -
we will not die, but continue   
on a starless path, through
rejection and guesses, till
that one final moment of in-
decision, incision, cutting so deep
into the texture of dreams that
the truth will come out

like so much infected flesh, like
a question no-one dared to ask,
like a task never completed,
the always-known will come out
of our wounds of transition, of our
desperate awarenesses, that eternal engine
which propels all souls to the quest
of eternity… maybe we will not die

but see how we change, from
static chrysalises to new-fangled
Zerg. from a moment of summoning
to a living building, we shall be warped, changed, restructured.

and then we shall redeem

death.

the weather makers

they say, one swallow does not make a summer. does a flock (oh dear, do they flock at all?) of larks make a spring? or does a daffodil, for that matter?

but spring is in the air, and all the little critters acknowledge it by chirp, jump or scurry.

the bigger critters get unserious.

and this me is filled with infinite sadness at the change of light, and deep and painful joy, when the morning light turns greyish-lilac, and the evening light makes all things glow.

and it all reminds me of the mingling of the lights described in the silmarillion. before the darkness came. it all reminds of the light lost, and the light to be gained.

a thought about stars, and over them, and further up and deeper in

this is the only instance of the song in the whole wide youtube world…. i paste the text (in german) below. because this song roams my dreams. and this is also my hope, and ultimately, the end of this journey.

Über den Sternen, da wird es einst tagen,
Da wird dein Hoffen, dein Sehnen gestillt;
Was du gelitten, und was du getragen,
Dort ein allmächtiges Wesen vergilt.

Über den Sternen, da schwindet die Täuschung,
Da siehst du Alles enträtselt, enthüllt,
Was du erwartet, des Himmels Verheißung,
Dort wird es ewig und herrlich erfüllt.

Über den Sternen, da finden sich wieder
Wesen, die feindlich das Schicksal getrennt,
Dort sinkt die hemmende Scheidewand nieder,
Seele und Seele sich freudig erkennt.

Über den Sternen,da wehen die Palmen
Himmlische Kühlung, o Dulder, dir zu;
Engel begleiten mit heigen Psalmen
Todtmüde Herzen zur ewigen Ruh’.

pilnmēness/ pustrijos naktī// joprojām nav iespējams gulēt

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