Twilight Metaphysic

TWILIGHT METAPHYSIC It is too late to late to teach my heart anything. The alphabet of suffering. I already know by heart. I test it live. Life knows more than Sybil. Time has to be stooped. What bliss is there flowing? Reality resembles a moth eaten sweater. THIS IS POETRY. Life limps like a crippled girl Who hopes to marry well? Even though her heart is scarred with memories. Biography of fire and water. These are the worthless and painful reserves With which one starts on a long, uncertain journey Over one’s own private homeland. On which every footsteps on in boots. Older than Cain is every suffering, Even this one which is lake a cousin from away Has come for three day visit And stayed, made herself comfortable, Took up all the room and says nothing about leaving! The time of miracles is behind us. Time of tower building. Heavenly and earthly gardens From schoolbooks and poems. The so called Greek luck awaits us Where we will never Arrive. Therefore if you can, Water the flowers and the heart From some pitcher. Time does not dry up! Now make steps quicker, as they say, Time swallows its own images As if they own its children. Get it through your head, throwing a blanket Over your face won’t to help you. Even if underneath it a dear body waits for you. No use stuffing wax in your ears either. The sirens song will be part of you scream. Those who born happy and less happy Die before own body dies. They wear their faces like other people clothes As in paintings of Hieronymus Bosch. The one who wrote the sky, the earth and the sea, And above all, snow and dreams, The phases of the moon the colour of leaves, our faces, Seems distant and could like North Pole. Don’t call that nihilism or blasphemy. With wrong syntax and bad diction Was how the world was created// So many apples of divisiveness Have been tossed between us, One of them will event your feet. Perhaps, just as you ver. brought in the harvest, Added – up the accounts, Thrown your hands over your head Chasing rings of smoke and reveries. Dead – born will be your wishes. You every hope will be a widow. And as for love, not enough To spread slice of bread. Anja