Making the mistake of continuing
we wander now in a meadow of thistles
yet even here we may listen
to the songs of larks.
I am afraid of flooding the mind
too suddenly with images
letting these black rooks
flap in their myriads, cawing
to some festival
claws clutching at midnight twigs
half budded only, green tips
coming slowly to the sun.
What have I done that suddenly
emerging to the ice-sky's glare
these figurines take life
gyrate, kaleidoscope and waltz
clashing their symbols
omens of bird flights feathering
under heaven?
Having strangled God
he got back at me
with whips and great canes
beating slowly my twisting
body on the bed
til I was crying
No No No
and entered an unending
inner scream.
I juggle these differently weighted balls
with such care I scarcely move,
the risk of slipping is balanced by total inertia.
My juggling show is so uninteresting
nobody even knows what I've got in the air,
so totally calculated that even I
bore myself to death with repetitions.
My screams are as nothing
when I think of tortured Jews
or that woman trapped eternally
in her flying seat
crashed in jungle dying fourteen
days of maggots
among the decaying dead.
My scream is all men's
tho particular.
Let me contain
using its peculiar power to solve
life in living death,
to pass those gates
tempering the soul
to flexible steel -
no exaggeration.
This silence may yet lead
to the incomparable silence.
Let me then speak.
Help me -
I will not be lost.