The Leaves of Fall

Please, don’t step down for me,

Or any other creature,

From your tall pedestal

Of wisdom,

/

For, by the time that you

Would reach my lowly world,

I know, and you know, too,

That I would be long gone;

/

Imagine sitting by the river

And watching

Scarlet leaves

Drift quickly past you

/

In one of them,

Running from drowning,

Can you not recognize

My daily-aging face?

/

Can you, from high up

On your throne of knowledge,

Not see the end

Towards which I am rushing,

/

Dragged underwater and

Pushed back up by the currents,

Thinking it’s freedom to exists

In a shape-shifting cage?

/

Do not step down for me,

Or any other creature,

Into this icy river

Of oblivion:

/

Even if you could ever reach me,

I’d simply crumble in your hands

What Is It?

I hide my head

Inside my shoulders

And tightly hold myself

To stay upright

/

‘What is it

About me,’

I begin

To wonder,

/

‘That makes me feel

So small,

So full

Of self-disgust?’

/

‘Which

Of the secrets

I won’t tell

Thus dwarfs me?’

/

‘Which

Of the lies

I told

Keeps me thus chained?’

/

I lower to the ground

My eyes,

Dark, wounded,

Haunted

/

And almost run,

Although,

I know I couldn’t

Run away

/

From shame:

It floods me

Every

Morning

/

I drown in it

Until

It’s all there is

To feel

/

‘What is it,’

I wonder,

‘I don’t know

About me,

/

That makes me

So deeply,

So relentlessly

Ashamed?’

/

Is it the fact

That I am

Truly

Devoid of beauty

/

Of any kind,

Known

And unknown

To man?

/

Is it that, like the air

Which feeds my blood,

I am

Polluted

/

With every kind of dirt,

Know

And unknown

To man?

/

Or is it, maybe,

That I am a woman,

Whose hands and heart

Are cold, incapable of love?

/

Or is it simply

That I am too human?

With hundred strengths,

And weaknesses, and doubts?

The Gift of Nothing

A gift of nothing from no one

Awaits me deep in the forest

Of withered trees and dry foliage,

Of echoes of long-dead songs

/

I look across the glass river,

The banks of which are my playground,

Whose liquid glass is my water,

Whose changing name is unknown

/

I look across at the forest,

Waiting for the gliding ferry

To come and dock at my threshold

So I could welcome Him home

/

He brings me voices of strangers

And coins from faraway countries;

He tells me stories of people,

Whom only He could have known

/

He says one day he will give me

My gift of nothing from no one,

And on that day He will tell me

The river’s name and His own

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Isola_dei_Morti_IV_%28Bocklin%29.jpg

P.S.: Something to listen to if you liked the poem

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_the_Dead_%28Rachmaninoff%29

My Dear Hades

I had a dream that life was all around me

Its color – blue, its texture – soft and warm

And all my being drowned in quiet wonder,

I felt my mind at peace; I turned into a storm

 

Yet, where I stand awake there is no color

The eyes staring at me are made of glass and cold

The endlessly unwinding roads, the swarm of voices

Lead nowhere, speak of nothing – are the world

 

Or is this hell? And one could never live here?

How dare one stay alive among the dead?

One couldn’t breathe the poison of oblivion

But there is nothing here to breathe instead

 

My mind is gone; it’s diving in the abyss

It dug out, filled with love and hid in time

I do not want it back; I don’t believe I need it:

I am in hell and I don’t want to think of why