The Eternal Refugee
It
is dusk and the birds
have
found their way home,
needless
of a clock, map or sextant
Safe
in their nests with a little brood
Things
left behind
against
circumstances are visualized
Voices
resound in the convolutions of the brain
Curling
to reach the ones who left
But
they remind themselves of the chasm.
Now
you are here
On
the closest border
The
border man will fix you
with
the cold eye of a snake
and
answer not a word
He
will count you and give you a number
amongst
the lucky ones
who
left everything behind:
your
scarves, robes, dresses and makeup
your
silver, gold and bills
your
freshly cut flowers,
your
porcelain pots and pets,
your
peevish and discredited gods.
What
good is your clinging to unforgotten beauty?
What
about the kinsmen and the lost friends?
Your
rigorous bonds of blood
With
their cold stares and blank faces?
They
left your realm with its mundane prerequisites
They
are now forming rings and joining hands
In
games neither you nor your enemies know.
You
said goodbyes and parted ways
In
your different modern-day Sinais
You
left everything behind
Except
your ancestral nightmares
Born
of Manichean doctrines
The
border man will fix you with a cold eye
Count
you and give you a number
You
are just now the only lucky one.
It Shall Rise Again When we are Gone
You
could sketch it all
On
a tiny thumbnail,
The
story of the Son of Man
We
ran out of insurance
served
in timely doses by unseen Gods
We
ran out of decent chunks of land
we
used to grow food
Now
we grow pesky briars, brambles
and
some basil in worn-out auto-tire casings
we
expose to sunlight in balconies of the garden of life
while
fish and reefs perish under poisoned waves
while
poor animals suffer and die that we may live
Who
do we think we are after all?
Nothing
but mere Lone Rangers disguised as prophets.
Some
gunslingers pretending to be peacemakers.
A
vigilante model of justice with many silver bullets?
Haven’t
we enough?
Haven’t
we abandoned the whole world
for
nothing at all?
Haven’t
we plucked all the flowers
leaving
them crumpled at the curb’s edge?
For
what purpose, but the mere greed,
The
mere triumphant pleasure of leaving a trace
of
what we call human progress
disguised
in shameful disgrace
Then
we speak of a common tone
Something
we call love
Yet
we know nothing of love or its heartaches
We
speak of it against our reasons
because
it is all we can do when we fail in old age
We
are losing light and it is getting late
When
we are gone, when we are done with
The
sun shall rise and shed its beams
as
it has always done
As
if it was the first day of the world!
