Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The bird of passage

I have been to places where cotton wool clouds sing. To places where milky snow bleeds sun and gleams like sweat straight from the green eyes. To places where dolphins talk and to places where songbirds play in choir.
Some islands sprouting love, some soporific oceans with their hands spread to greet the boats in their hearts, some voluminous tree lands producing blustery breeze, some dingles knitting the hobbit chronicles, some valleys designing the manifesto of dreams.
I passed the country of lunatics, the palace of blasphemy, the street of business, the traffic of unnamed philosophers, the house of lust, the home of a scientist, the room of separation, the window of a chaste dreamer. I have been drifting like a white pollen.
I met one man with obscene scripts, one hero of sunken brides, one villain with truth shedding off his eyes, one gladiator with hundreds of swords, one aviator who does not get off the flying instrument, one king with evil valet, one girl with pure lips, one woman with profound strength, one upper class lady who drinks among dishonest maids, one princess who died for the beggared, one queen who bathed in young nymphs’ tears.
I witnessed what they say ‘supernatural’. I watched beautiful witches on their broomsticks, artists in their invisible clocks, card tables rinsing in blood, tiny glasses clinking in refusal, sweet smell of mists playing with horses, blue moon laughing in a distant land.

I pause.

The mausoleum waits for me to float around, like the rustling mid-wind and write          and              recite the warmth I carry in my tattered blanket. They assemble in my body to listen to the tales. All men and women and all, who are yet to speak.  They want the music in me to lyric their souls. The verses blended in love to stage a new tale.

I abide. I sing. 


Minko said...

I really, really loved the phrase 'milky snow bleeds sun'. It reminded me of Dylan Thomas.

These journeys are not new. John Bunyan and Dante had had their moments in the sun, before they started making rounds. Your journey, I suspect, is much like another Dylan. There are signs of the hard rain song all over it! People like me, who are afraid of luminosity, wait for rainbows. Keep conjuring up rainbows, for Dylan, and, for me, if you will.

Monika said...

For Dylan, for you and for me!

Minko said...