Freitag, 7. November 2014

The buzzard that fell from the sky

Through the darkening autumn woods I broke in a feeble attempt to free myself from leaden time. Was it when or thence or just last week that I went out again? The winds were singing in a violent wind, and within the wind there was a space, and within this space there was a nest, and within this nest a secret curled, unfurled like a wisp of smoke upon the wind. A cry sounds in the woods by mystery enchanted, but was it real?
Those are just the same woods I visited so often and so long a time I have spent under the trees, alien to my kind.
And an aetherical scent, a smell upon a secret stench arises, musk and shadow from the rich, dark soil.

Onwards it led, the trail unseen, and scent and sight and sound  did guide me through the maze of trees.

What was that cry, a cry unheard, or was it real? What was that rustling in the leaves? Is this a dream or just an essay about things that were and things that are?

Insanity is the poet´s bridge. Damnation is a canyon on either side, and like a knife, and like its edge is the shallow arch above the abyss. What was that dream, the cry unheard, so wild above? Is this a sprite, or that white bird of dusk I have seen so often before a storm?

Thus grow the trees and from their seed of seeds firmly they tread their root into the ground, deeper, deeper, even when autumn passed and winterstorm comes.

Death is reigning, and from his hand the secret still unfurls like a mossy carpet. Deeper into the rich and musky soil I go to agnize the cry of mycel and sky; the lament of the land.
The song of a lunatic is this, but it is bane to love a poet, to fight a poet, to be a poet, and deeper, deeper still into halls unseen, into a dream forlorn, an oath and a spell. I go. I walk the pathway on and on, under a leaden sky, on a flight from a world well trodden into a hidden place.  
The buzzard that fell from the sky,
The dying fruit of the ever-prospering mycel,
The fallen tree still sprouts beside the well, all sing the song-the lament of the land.
Fly well, my spirit, my buzzard that fell from the sky, fly high amongst the song of life. Of death we sing, but is it truth? Is it dream or fancy?
The golden light now goes to rest behind the woods, the unending realm and the treaty of being.
Sleep well, behind  the doors of midnight, my friend, and sing your cry into the dream.

And far beyond the sinking sun I see the path untrodden;
and far behind the sinking sun the silver bridge arises to realms afar beyond the yonder, to times where the trail was straight and true.

Fly well, my song, along the road of dreams.

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