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Mittwoch, 25. Januar 2017

Frost and freedom

 Again I felt this urge again. I had to get out, out into a world where things are just what they are. Where a fact is a fact and Amsterdam is not the capital of Berlin. Where there is no peace, sure, but certainly no war, and lunacy dies a sorry death. For a rabid fox or racoon will die, ultimately.

There is frost, and the trees are still and breathe but slowly. It is a hard time for birds and deer and fox and hare, for racoon and rabbit. Frost rides heavily and reigns like death. And yet, its crystals reflect the light, ever so fragile, and the darkest night has just passed, and the days get longer.

At the trailhead I met a deer. It just passed by ever so slowly. Another, passing from the dale, shied and sprinted away, clouds of snow trailing up from its flight. There was a simple beauty to both behaviours, a power in the stride and the flight of both of them, and it conveyed a deep meaning to me-but it would be futile to try to describe it.


The forest lay dark and still and adorned with the jewellish twinkle of crystal beauty. The wind bit hard down on my face, and still I coveted its touch.

 Words get frozen in a poet´s mouth. Words become crystals that fall and shatter with a sound, twinkling ever so faintly, and yet ringing like a roar in my weary mind.

 ...
 On I walked, to the top of a hill, entwined in a crystal cobweb´s dream... a song in my heart, faint yet strong.
 There are no answers given in the twilight, and no respite from the lunacy and rabies that has befallen man. But frost has come and frost will go.
 And tracks afield run from thicket to thicket and tell me the runes of the forest.
 To the hilltop. To a hawthorn in ornate needles and thorns of winter. Do not sleep under the hawthorne tree, they say, or you will never be the same again. And I laugh. I laugh at their fears and their want. For I DID sleep under the hawthorn tree, under a new moon, a sickle of silver.
 I laugh at their plight and their wars. My heart is armed with thorns and swords of frost and tongues of fire. I unbecame human long time ago.
 Welcome to the realm of frost and twilight. Welcome, ye wicked, to the treacherous trails of winter...
Where your worst nightmares dwell.

Kommentare:

  1. I used to work outdoors 365 days a year and loved it. I don't think I could handle it now, though. Enjoy it while you can. Beautiful photos!

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    1. There always is Death in Life. I realized this long ago. Even if I die tomorrow, these moments will be mine forever. And no one will ever have control over the dendrites of Death. Slowly, but surely they grow, with each second that passes we all pass, from the day of our birth on. The days of virility are but a fad. This is freedom unfathomed even by the tyrants of the world. No glory will last. No strong words will take any effect whatsoever. Love will fade, as will hate. Walls will crumble to dust. Even nuclear winter will be subject to almighty Death.

      Thank you for the appreciation.

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  2. I must say I think this is one of your best so far.
    Painting with words indeed. I wonder what you would make of winter here.

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  3. Ron, I wonder myself... and one day I have to see the Swedish winter. I´d love to visit Lapland one day, but alas, I could not afford the travel. I´d love to join the song of the Aurora Borealis...

    And thank you, too, you´re welcome... ;-)

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  4. Did you know that you can shorten your long links with AdFly and get cash from every click on your short urls.

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Now go on, discuss and rant and push my ego;-). As long as it´s a respectful message, every comment is welcome!

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