Remind them of reminiscence,
And see the sky turn gray over where I could not.
Carefully perceiving the others motives, - (is it other's or others')
And the wind between the trees- carefully blowing.
An October afternoon, quietly in-folding,
Breathing in the fumes of an imminent clash,
(Intimidate the other and half the fight is over.)
Foreign soil, poured into ours does not teem with plants here.
Here the Grapes are fresh and heavy, bending the bow upon which,
They see life and rain and sometimes sunshine.
Bending the bow upon which they reach their sordid purple state,
And shine with purple-ness, and glitter with the power of
hands and nothing more.
Come sad October afternoon,
And rub the shine from my day.
The polish was too tainted with grime,
for you to ignore.
Come and float slyly over the quiet scene.
Let no thought come between you and your subterranean lies.
The traffic was faint at points,
Rustling through various leaves.
And after that there was some smell of alcohol,
Decayed, old, uncomfortable alcohol.
Despite the afternoon, the road winded,
Stretching between one side and the other.
The cars were one with it- there was no separation between,
the two creations of reckless man.
And indeed we did look up, and see the Empty,
Stretching between the stars, so much,
Stretching between the stars.
We did somehow realize, and we do realize now-
Breathing into it will not create life.
You did say to me, summer of winter,
That there was something to see in them.
I have not seen much yet, swimming inexplicably inside them.
Is that why?
Why me, summer of winter,
Why not you?
Why not them?
Can you say, and try to feel,
Something happy or good to me,
Can you say- I want you to find meadows, filled with carrion?
Can you say- I want you to sit still in a bowl of clear water?
And can you think yet again- I want you to be?
Can you say this and say this without you?
For if you can, oh Gardener of the East,
Then you will be one with me,
One with you,
One with them.
And one with them.
Begin to suffice in tranquil scenes,
And see clearly, what you tread on.
Must I say to hear vast speech?
After the first word comes the second,
Unless you are higher than most.
One leads to the other that leads back to it,
And sometimes, they lead to nothing, but each other.
And that is nothing.
You know not what I talk of?
Do you not see it?
Walking beneath a glimpse of wanting,
Wailing beneath brightly lighted windows,
Full of white light and flickering screens.
Full of shallow questions about the night's show.
They lean against each other- these uncreated men.
And submit to each other their occupational forms,
That mark their joys.
And when they come to a brightly lit word,
They clap and pat each other on their backs,
But their cheeks hurt.
But before they part for the day, to tend to their wives,
They ask each other to draw the sunset.
Tomorrow it will be different, my poetic friend.
And come tomorrow too.
Palatial establishments spread far,
And so do the dying embers of cold fires.
Cold fires spreading through.
You stand and watch the bull's blood being swallowed.
Do you cut it up to satisfy a gastronomic fancy?
Or do you view the universe in it's torn behind?
Vast palaces glinting in the light of dawn,
Pink and glorious, its marble threads, weaving away into the distance.
Behind lie the acidic green of an immature forest.
And beyond rise the remains of yellow mountains-
Diseased and yellow mountains, those glint in the morning light,
That beckon like desperate housewives, raving into the morning light,
At the milkman, who hurries away.
And the screen whirs and flickers, like a destitute widow beckoning wildly to a passerby-
Be it a man or a woman.
But from a distance they feel nothing.
Except the fury of a missed meeting.
If at some point, you decide to be free,
If at any point you decide to be free.
Look behind into the shadows- you may be followed.