vendredi, mars 16, 2007
to say Hello
I would approach, slowly, black umbrella
in the hand taut against the wispy drizzle,
shiny black leather glistening with rain
treading on overgrown grass.
And with the raindrops covering the land
in this bleak whiteness, or some would say
heavenly bliss, which I agree neither to
but whence I shall come to rest in the midst
of it all pausing at a fresh green field,
an old stone newly chiseled, old soil freshly
dug and filled, an old soul newly interred.
At the end of the rain's journey, is there anything left
to say. Of the way it hit and splashed?
of the blades of grass sticking out at the edges
straining in the wind, laden by the rain
of memories, of time, of life, of past,
of you, of existence, of a certain
unmistakable presence that lives on in a
name, of a belief that somewhere over
there, yes there, that an apparition
stands slouching on one leg, and flicks
his hand in the gesture that we both know.
of course i fling it back to you and
we smile at each other, or rather simply
the vague indication of recognition that usually
follows, another evil flightpath already hatching in the mind.
Then in all futility and lameness which we know to be inconsequential,
we say Hello.
Tragically in that one word we have greeted and also said goodbye,
for it has irrevocably signaled the absence before
and fatalistically the separation that must follow.
[perhaps it would be more apparent in French, where 'salut' can mean both hi and bye]
to say Hello
And if chance ever were to be
I would approach, slowly, black umbrella
in the hand taut against the wispy drizzle,
shiny black leather glistening with rain
treading on overgrown grass.
And with the raindrops covering the land
in this bleak whiteness, or some would say
heavenly bliss, which I agree neither to
but whence I shall come to rest in the midst
of it all pausing at a fresh green field,
an old stone newly chiseled, old soil freshly
dug and filled, an old soul newly interred.
At the end of the rain's journey, is there anything left
to say. Of the way it hit and splashed?
of the blades of grass sticking out at the edges
straining in the wind, laden by the rain
of memories, of time, of life, of past,
of you, of existence, of a certain
unmistakable presence that lives on in a
name, of a belief that somewhere over
there, yes there, that an apparition
stands slouching on one leg, and flicks
his hand in the gesture that we both know.
of course i fling it back to you and
we smile at each other, or rather simply
the vague indication of recognition that usually
follows, another evil flightpath already hatching in the mind.
Then in all futility and lameness which we know to be inconsequential,
we say Hello.
Tragically in that one word we have greeted and also said goodbye,
for it has irrevocably signaled the absence before
and fatalistically the separation that must follow.
[perhaps it would be more apparent in French, where 'salut' can mean both hi and bye]
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