My life is not this vertical hour
in which you find my passing at a run.
I am a tree in front of my own background,
I am only one of the sounds,
and that would be first to be silent.
I am the quiet between two sound
that only with difficulty grow used to one
for the tone of Death also wishes to be heard-
But in the darkness of the interval
they make peace with one another, uncommonly
And the song continues sweet.
Hail to the spirit that would connect us;
in that we live truly in figures.
And with small steps pass the hours
beside our authentic day.
Without knowing our true place
we are moved to action be real relation.
Antennae feel antennae
carried by empty distance...
Pure tension. O Music of powers!
Is not through this venial industry
every disturbance deflected from you?
Even when the farmer cares and toils
to that place where the seed itself transforms,
he does not reach. The Earth bestows.
Friday, March 21, 2008