Publication 693
By orwell on
Friday, December 31, 2004
at
21:02
Location:
Ireland
Registered:
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Posts:
18
SearchQuote
The wander, whose name once you were
Made, to endure these stoned valleys
Of cactus sands, dried in abstractions
Of dust, where the roads who signalled your return
Became silent, in that silence becoming
This world, you alone, pass through its time-
Near a radiant isolation, you accompany
That singular wind, on the harsh desert
Where a ferocious light was conceived
Abundantly, and marooned as crystal
Like salts, snow in the persistent inferno
Of a solitude begotten like the cracked surfaces
Of these undistributed stones, who visit
The thoughts with a profound vacancy
Of neither time nor space endured nor filled
With that primeval tune of unbroken light
Where life becomes a beginning and an ending
Of moments seized eternally on those beautiful scales
Of a stationary lizard, observing the same space
Without any further thought, that lives on forever
To post a reply you must login, and if you are not already registered you must first register.
All Communities
Writing Community
The Wander
