What is it like to look out from your eyes
Your deep-set eyes, overshadowed
And engulfed by the surrounding desert-
parched skin, sun-cracked
with age, with time, with care?
White feather-tendrils fly loosely.
They would appear a halo,
A uniform halo in the light.
But now the mirage lies dormant,
Visible only in the observer's imagination.
The expressed desire is that of escape-
From the cap, the head or the life?
A bended figure like the bowed trunk
Of an ancient apple tree,
One that struggles to remain relevant,
Though it yields fruit no longer.
Inch-thick glasses set gingerly upon a volume,
A volume as cracked and aged
As the figure, the lonely? solitary shade
That shuffles slowly away.
Pages as frail and discolored
As the man,
Himself-
That which is therein contained,
In those fragile pages,
Cannot be discerned from such a distance-
From across the room, the tables,
The valley of death.
The edition doesn't ever matter
Except for the commentary,
The editor's notes, categorically imposed upon the text-
Nothing ever changes
But the font and page-numbers.
No comments:
Post a Comment